


Copper

by strollamongthestars



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 2 (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Adventure, Angst, F/M, Garth - Freeform, Jack of Blades - Freeform, Mommy Issues, Murgo the Trader, Swearing, angst with an ending that's a little happy?, because he obviously effed up again, guest starring old companions like, hammer - Freeform, post fable 2, sparrow and reaver team up to save the world, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:51:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9455798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strollamongthestars/pseuds/strollamongthestars
Summary: Recently returned from a year in Samarkand, Reaver latches onto the Hero of Bowerstone knowing that adventure is never too far behind. Alternatively annoyed and grateful for the company, Sparrow tries to find out what he wants while coping with life post revenge. FemSparrowxReaver. Super slow burn. Post Fable 2 with a tweaks leading up to the beginning Fable 3.This is a cross-post from fanfiction.net, the site no longer works for me. This story was originally published in 2011. Yes, it is still on going.





	1. Old Habits Die Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years after Lucien's defeat, Sparrow returns to Albion after visiting Hammer and struggles to return to daily life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little fic I wrote years ago and just rediscovered while switching computers. We all know that the ingame Reaver would never be caught dead falling in love with anyone but himself. A few things from the game (ie Reaver, side quests, and ages) have been tweaked for my own liking. 
> 
> This is a cross-post from fanfiction.net which no longer works for me. This story was originally published in 2011. Yes, it is still on going.

 Her hair hung just past her shoulders in a loose braid. As Reaver watched her braid bounce against her back he found his eyes drifting from the copper braid to the knee length trench coat, then to the thigh high boots (her attempt at increased modesty which had had the opposite effect so far). He was so distracted by his appraisal that when she stopped he ran right into her.

“How long do you plan on following me for?”

“Sparrow, there’s only one way to Bowerstone from Bloodstone. I would have gone by boat but _someone_ had to involve me in her scheme for revenge.” Reaver replied coolly taking a step away from the angry adventurer.

Sparrow growled, her emerald eyes flashing hotly, and swallowed her irritation. All of Albion and she had to be followed by the one Hero who she could outright murder. Her right hand traced the outline of the knife hidden in the top of her left boot. She had hoped that the pants, boots, and trench coat would keep the worst of his leering at bay but she had felt his eyes on her all day. He hadn’t said anything though and that was the strange part. The Reaver she had knew would have spewed proposition after proposition at her; however, today Reaver had apparently been content to just watch and keep his big, stupid mouth shut. Sparrow could only take consolation the fact that the boots had been a good purchase with plenty of uses ranging from hiding knives to merely keeping her legs warm in the chill costal air.

 _Shadows, she’s even prettier angry._ Reaver had long since ceased trying to ignoring these thoughts. Sparrow had whipped him up into her mess with Lucien, and as she had shaped the world into the weapon she needed, she had changed some integral part of him. He had sought to put things back to normal by leaving for Samarkand. Running away had always worked in the past when a man or woman had captured too much of his attention. None of his old tricks had worked this time though and now he was back at the source.

“Anyway, I think Poor man’s point is just past this hill. Not that I’m an expert on this region, I don’t walk much.” Reaver grinned as Sparrow let loose one of her famous groans of frustration and whirled around walking even faster up the steep hill.

 _I can’t wait till we reach Bowerstone and I can slam the door of my house shut on that plague ridden, selfish, pox ridden, dung ball of a pirate._ Sparrow thought furiously as she stomped over the muddy trail. It was two nights ago that she had been dropped off at the Bloodstone harbor by the captain of the Sharlot Marie (the captain was terrible at spelling) when she had run into Reaver.

“Quite lucky I found you on the road. I always like debts paid up front.” Reaver was saying, not even trying to hide his amusement. She could hear the laughter in his voice like chimes in the wind and like those dinky garden decorations, Sparrow found it annoying.

“Found me?” Sparrow turned to glare at the pirate ready to unleash a stream of curses while walking backwards. Her copper braid was thrown over her shoulder with the force of her turn. “I found you! I found you standing like an oaf in front of a Demon Door of all things in the middle of a cemetery!”

Reaver barely suppressed a sigh, if she was going to yell at him so much he would have stayed with Garth in Samarkand, miserable and bored. _Well if she’s screaming it means she feels something at least._ He thought ironically.

“You great bastard child of a screaming spider-pleasing marsupial!”

“You come up with that one yourself?” Reaver laughed, he jogged forward a few steps to catch up with Sparrow. She was fast, even walking backwards. “If it’s so sodding troublesome to travel with me; how come _you_ dragged me out of that cemetery?”

Sparrow halted her right foot held comically in the air, _why had I pulled him away from there?_ It had never occurred to her to not pull him away from the possessed door. She could have left him to be sucked into the door’s riddles just like any other unfortunate soul, but instead she had saved him. She lowered her foot, moving back one step.

“I-“Sparrow stuttered, surprise clearly written over her suntanned face.

Reaver waited, staring. The sun was setting behind Sparrow, offsetting her copper hair, making her glow like a goddess. He felt the grin on his face fade; the sun was setting behind her? Reaver’s dark grey eyes shot to the ground, they were situated only about three feet from the edge of a cliff.

“Sparrow-“

“I-I’m a hero! I save people!” Sparrow said indignantly, her face flushing red. She took a step backward. “Don’t go thinking you’re special just because-! “ Sparrow’s explanation ended in a short yelp as the ground gave way and Sparrow found herself tipping backwards. She reached out her gloved hands her eyes locked with Reaver’s dark grey irises. 

Reaver lunged, his hand reaching hers just in time. The pirate pulled the hero back to solid ground, stumbling back several feet from the edge of the cliff. Reaver had pulled her to his chest and she stayed there, her wide eyes hidden from his view.  Then he felt her hand drop to his side and before he understood that she was going for his gun and not something else, she had fired three shots without so much as a peek over his shoulders at her targets.

Reaver let out a sigh of relief. “No more scolding. I don’t think I can take it.”

“Tell that to the bandits you let sneak up on us.” Sparrow said with a little laugh, she slipped the pistol back into its holster and pushed away from his chest, her arms shaking.

He looked at her waiting.

“Heights, I, um, I’m not good with heights.” She whispered and stared intently at the slain bandits. _I will not let him laugh at me. It’s a valid fear!_ Sparrow thought stubbornly.

Reaver shrugged nonchalantly, “Shall we?” Oh how good it had felt when she had clung to him. What else could have happened if those damned bandits hadn’t interrupted? Reaver pushed the barrage of fantasies away but making a mental note to revisit them later. He was surprised to hear that she was scared of heights as most of Theresa’s inane quests had involved spires or mountains or overly large hills.

Sparrow frowned; this was not the reaction she had been expecting. “No comment? No sarcastic rebuke?” She smoothed her braid with one gloved hand and tossed it back over her shoulder. This was not the Reaver she had come to know during that year fighting against Lucien. He was almost being nice.

Reaver arched an eyebrow, “You really are masochistic.” He sounded almost annoyed.

“Are you feeling okay? You haven’t been acting very…Reaver-like since you returned from Samarkand.” Sparrow watched his face close and that familiar smug and put upon expression descend. She could barely stop herself from jumping in delight. At last, the Reaver she knew and hated was back. The Reaver that she had spent a year fighting Lucien with before he had betrayed her. Yes she knew how to deal with this Reaver.

“Don’t you have a vicious ghost to exorcise, _Hero_?” the title came out as a sneer reminding Sparrow just how much Reaver thought of it. “Or are you planning on waiting for the bandits to come looking for their man in black? I do hope they bring more men this time.” Reaver turned away from Sparrow and picked his way back to the road. He didn’t wait for the hero to follow.

Sparrow snorted in dismissal, “They never came for him.”

“What?” Reaver asked, halting in mid step, half turning back to look at Sparrow curiously.

 “What?” she deadpanned, and then, after glancing at the bandit she had just off’d, blushed. “Oh, you meant him. Is that the haunted cliff over there? Will wonders never cease!” she hurried past a dumbfounded Reaver with one gloved hand blocking her red face from view.

Reaver felt an urge to chuckle at little Sparrow’s antics but suppressed it in favor of catching up with the Hero. He wanted to know who her man in black was, and if he should be expecting competition.


	2. Cows, Corsets, and a Gambling Addiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow and Reaver have a philosophical disagreement in a tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that in Fable 2 Reaver has blue eyes and in Fable 3 he has brown eyes. In this I've given him gray because I couldn't figure out his eye color at first and it seemed to match his alignment the best.

“So,” Reaver cocked his head at the hero, waiting for her to finish read the letter they had picked up at Poor Man’s Point. After what they had encountered on the Point, the pirate thought a name change was definitely in order. Perhaps Lonely Lookout or Pathetic Ghost Woman Way. He tapped the handle of his pint idly.

Sparrow looked up from the ghost woman’s letter and met Reaver’s gaze with her own tired eyes. She desperately needed a good 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep. “No, I will not sleep with you. I will not ‘don the velvet cap’ or whatever gross innuendo you have cooked up whilst drinking that swill of yours.”

                “I was only going to ask what it said.” Reaver replied with an innocent gesture. “But I was wondering if later-“he began wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, a joking grin appearing on his face.

Sparrow leaned across the table and promptly stuffed a roll in Reaver’s mouth. “The ghost wants me to find her fiancé, seduce him, and then give him this letter which explains how horrible a person he is.” She informed him, a smile creeping across her face at Reaver’s expense. He looked a bit like a roasted pig with the roll in his mouth like that.

                 The pirate ripped the roll out of his mouth. “What did you put in this, thing? Rocks, do you bake rocks and call them rolls? You do don’t you.” Reaver complained gurgling ale in between each outburst. He tossed the offending roll over his shoulder and sighed happily at the resounding crunch of breaking glass.

Sparrow winced and massaged her temples with an irritated fervor. “Just because I own the tavern does not mean I make the rolls. And I am sure you could have found somewhere else to eat.” She added in reference to the flocks of women that had accosted them since they entered the city. Even now she felt their hot eyes boring holes into her back. _I swear I’ll never understand why women still fall for him._ Sparrow thought. _There’s no way they haven’t heard the stories._

                Reaver rolled his eyes; she hardly paid any attention to her businesses. “No it means you should fire your cook.” Reaver slipped his hand over the table and snatched the ghost’s letter.  “Now you’ve gotten us off topic.” He scanned the letter quickly. “This is addressed to a fellow named Alex.” Reaver looked back at Sparrow, quietly admiring how the smoky tavern atmosphere complimented her fiery hair, sun warmed skin, and, of course, a glimpse of modest cleavage.

Sparrow just sighed and as Reaver read the ghost woman’s letter once more, drank the remainder of his ale. The mug hit the worn table with a loud clang that hardly cut through the increasing noise of the tavern.    
                “Alex,” Sparrow explained, “Is her fiancé, or, was her fiancé. He left her at the altar and she was so heartbroken she threw herself off a cliff.” Sparrow suppressed a shudder as she remembered her almost fall from that afternoon.  “She wants him to feel the pain that she felt. You would’ve heard all of this if you didn’t keep poking fun at her.”

Reaver waved his hand dismissively, the ghost woman had been easy pickings and he couldn’t help himself. “So, seduce him and then break his heart?”

                “I’m not doing it.” She spat refilling the mug from the pitcher on the table. “Leading her fiancé on and then telling him he made his love jump off a cliff? He’d go join her.” She took another gulp from the pottery mug and gritted her teeth as she swallowed the bitter liquid. She had never really liked that taste of ale but she was so strung out from traveling with Reaver and four sleepless nights that she welcomed the heady feeling that followed the bitter taste.

Reaver watched her, his eyes dark as he considered the hero’s predicament. She was assuming the ghost bride’s former husband-to-be was a good man. Sparrow was prattling on about how horrid he must feel after his _true love_ off’d herself.  Reaver doubted the situation was anything like what Sparrow was describing as she drank _his_ ale. After all Sparrow’s client was _dead_ and clamoring for the death of her fiancé. 

                “Anyway so his name is Alex, I’ll find him, take him back to the ghost and they’ll have a proper row about it and it’ll be over by dinner. She’ll move on, he’ll move on, I’ll move on.” Sparrow studied Reaver’s reaction from behind her pint of ale. She made a mental note to stop after this one. The hero rolled her shoulders, feeling the knots of tension and weeks of travel beginning to loosen. If only she could get a massage….

Reaver blinked, that was her plan? How had she survived her encounter with Lucian? The pirate laughed and looked around the tavern, his dark grey eyes alighting on a large buxom waitress near the game table. “How are you going to find the man?”

                “He’s around I’m sure.”

                “And if he’s not the saint you’re looking for? Which he will not be—“

                “Not everyone’s as twisted as you, Reaver.” Sparrow replied bluntly.

Reaver shook his head, raising his hand to get the attention of the waitress.” Sparrow everyone is twisted, they just haven’t had a century to perfect it like I have. You are the only exception, my dear.” He was distracted by the buxom waitress making her way to their table, it seemed most of the tavern’s occupants were distracted by the waitress, and asking in a sultry voice what she could do for him. Reaver ordered another mug and a fresh pitcher of ale before flirting with her. To his pleasure the waitress was a pro at the game.

Now it was Sparrow’s turn to roll her eyes, typical Reaver, assuming the whole world was filled with selfish asshats and then chatting up the waitress. “Excuse me,” Sparrow interjected, she slapped down a few coins knowing the sound would garner the waitress’s attention, enough for the ale and a bit of information.  She searched her mind for the woman’s name but she didn’t remember her from any of her visits to the Cow and Corset. “I’m looking for a man named Alex?”

The money immediately caught the waitress’s attention, she licked her chapped lips as she considered Sparrow’s question. Reaver sighed at Sparrow’s indelicate information gathering, he was just getting round to asking the woman who this Alex was.

                “Aye, but we got a couple in ‘ere tonight.” The waitress flicked her watery blue eyes over Sparrow, assessing how much more coin she could squeeze out of the heroine. “What’s the one you’re lookin for?”

                “I don’t know him personally. His-ah-a mutual friend of ours pointed me towards him. All I know is he was engaged last spring but the girl died.” Sparrow picked one of the coins up from the pile and flipped it over her knuckles. It was trick she had mastered growing up in the gypsy camp.

The waitress’s watery eyes watched the coin roll across Sparrow’s knuckles. She pointed to man with brown hair tied back in fashionable ponytail nursing a shot of fire water at the bar. His shoulders were slumped and looked like he might have slept in his clothes. “That’s the one you’re lookin for.”

Sparrow flicked the coin back onto the pile, “I’ll take that mug over there please.”

The waitress scooped up the coins deftly and nodded, “Sure thing miss.”

Sparrow waited as the waitress cleared the plates, nearly falling out of her blouse twice for Reaver’s benefit, and then reluctantly left to fill their order before she spoke to Reaver.

“He looks heartbroken.” Sparrow said simply.

                “He looks homeless. “ Reaver replied arching an eyebrow (perfectly shaped) in disbelief.

                “Because he’s heartbroken.”

                “You really believe this ‘true love’ drivel?”

Sparrow dug at cut in the table, avoiding that jaded expression and dark eyes that were staring incredulously at her. “Some things are fated.” Sparrow believed that. She had believed it as a child when that kind family had watched over her and her sister every winter. She had believed it when they had managed to scrape together 5 gold coins to buy that music box. She believed it now, when she had lost everything; her sister Rose, her dog Tobar, even Theresa to fulfill her bloodline. After a minute of silence she looked up, watching Reaver through a bit of hair that had escaped her braid. This was the second time he hadn’t reacted to her expectations.

The memory took him by surprise it snuck upon him so quietly. Sparrow was admitting her belief in true love (which he knew she knew was ridiculous by how she avoided his eyes) and then suddenly he could almost feel a gentle sea breeze and the warmth of the sun on his skin. Her hair was a tangled mess but it shimmered like gold in the sun. Her back was to him. She didn’t know he was there, he had been passing by on his way to the market when he saw her standing on the dock, waiting. Time skipped and it was fall, he was standing before her, they were arguing, and there was something in her eyes and her stance that reminded him of Sparrow….

                “Reaver?” Suddenly he was back, seeing only Sparrow’s concerned emerald eyes and feeling the sharp pressure of her hand on his arm.

                “I rather like having the use of both of my arms.” he snapped, brushing her hand away. Another hurtful remark was working its way out when the waitress returned with a fresh pitcher for the table.

                “I left your mug at the bar, miss.” She told Sparrow, who left the table quickly only to march back to the table and yell angrily.

                “Don’t even think of putting that on my tab!”

The waitress’s eyes widened a little in shock before turning to Reaver, “Who tightened her corset?”

                “She’s the Hero of the Spire; the whole country tightens her corset.”

The waitress gasped, her bosom nearly escaping the inadequate confines of her bodice again. “You mean that was the-.”

                “Hero of Bowerstone, yes.” Reaver finished, bored by the waitress’s reaction and a little too engrossed in watching Sparrow as she sauntered up to the man at the bar. He was concerned with whatever it was she had broken in him. He had buried the memories of his old life and did not enjoy seeing them resurface. He was wondering if it was a bad idea to give up on forgetting his year with the hero and return to Albion. After dismissing the waitress, Reaver reached across the table and took back his mug and distracting himself with watching Sparrow enact her plan, which was stupid. He imagined she’d be crawling back in a few minutes or so when she realized that is wasn’t going to work or that Alex was total jerk. Sparrow didn’t return in the next five minutes or ten or twenty. She was tossing her copper hair and laughing so hard that she nearly fell off of her stool. Luckily that Alex fellow caught her arm and steadied her. Reaver gulped the last of his ale and set it back down angrily as he watched.  

Sparrow was surprised to hear that it had been nearly four months since Alex’s fiancé had died. Understandably he avoided the topic and turned the conversation towards what had brought Sparrow into town.  She revealed that she actually owned the tavern and was here to check on the books, an easy lie. Sparrow owned a few taverns and some stores but she had largely left the previous owners in charge. She was too busy being Albion’s Hero to manage a business but she also needed the money for weapons, clothes, and food.

At some point Reaver realized he was glowering. Not glaring or frowning but glaring sullenly at Sparrow and her new friend. It was also around this time that he realized that Sparrow had slipped beyond happily buzzed to sleepily drunk. He recognized the alert and eager posture Alex had taken as Sparrow’s eyelids began to droop. Sighing, Reaver stood from the table and made his way to the bar to rescue Sparrow from her tee totaling ways. He was about halfway across the tavern when he remembered her coat was still draped over the back of her chair. It didn’t even occur to the pirate that he could just leave Sparrow and her jackets to their fates.

                “Come on, beddy bye time.” He tapped Sparrow on the shoulder, gray eyes flicking for a second to Alex’s drink. It was still full.

                “Reaver?” slurred Sparrow, her glazed eyes glazed and her confusion on finding him behind her evident on her flushed face. The hero was beginning to form some protest but Reaver had her coat draped about her shoulders and her off of the stool before it could come to fruition.

                “Now, now _Hero_ ,” Reaver sent an annoyed look towards Alex and emphasized the word as a warning. Reaver recognized the sweet scent that had lingered on Sparrow’s breath beneath the ale. The drug’s side effects could easily be mistaken for drunken behavior. “Queen of observation, aren’t you?”

                “Who-?” Alex protested, pushing himself up off of his stool. He was stupid enough not to seem worried by Reaver revealing of Sparrow’s title. “Who are you?”

With a well-practiced flourish, Reaver whipped out his favorite Dragonstomper .48 and aimed it at the offending man’s head. He was tired and annoyed with himself, with Sparrow, and most certainly with this bilge water rat. “I am Reaver.” The pirate announced, his voice caring smoothly over the now hushed tavern, and pulled the trigger.


	3. Chivalry is a Tavern Brawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaver helps Sparrow home after their night at the tavern. Alex is in over his head.

Clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut, Alex braced himself for the shot, but it never came. He cracked open one eyelid to see the man angrily pulling at the trigger three more times with no affect. Click, click, click. He opened the barrel and cursed; the gun was empty.

                “Damn you, you meddling bitch!” Reaver stuffed the gun back into its holster. When had she stolen his ammunition? “You are lucky, very lucky that _she has no regard for other people’s property!”_ Reaver realized he was now screaming at Sparrow. It didn’t seem to affect the heroine much. Her head was resting on his shoulder and she was breathing steadily. Blasted woman had fallen asleep, and she looked damned cute too. Reaver spun, easily dumping Sparrow over his shoulder, and stomped out of the tavern. It had been a very bad plan to return to her side, a very bad plan indeed.

He shivered in the night air as a chill wind blew through the empty streets, howling as it twisted down alleys and past shuttered windows. It was bitterly cold for a spring night which did nothing to alleviate his temper. He stomped through the cobblestone streets, Sparrow flung over one shoulder, as he hunted for her house. Reaver and the heroine were of the same build, tall and wiry. She was lighter than he had expected (the woman carried an arsenal on her) but the sooner he could deposit her in her house the better. He knew it was in Old Town near the gardens, but his last visit to Bowerstone had been quite some time ago and the pirate had not spent any time in the quaint district. Sparrow had vaguely pointed out where her house was, as they passed through the district on their way to the Cow and Corset, earlier that evening. Reaver veered right, navigating the night crowd with an air of superiority, and passed house after house until he came to a little garden area that was illuminated by streetlamps.

 The view was breathtaking. All of Bowerstone was laid out before him; Castle Fairfax rose majestically out of a sea of candle light. Reaver paused to take it in, the city had grown much in the last hundred years, but this moment of peace was ruined by a sudden pounding on his back.

                “Putdownme!” Sparrow’s words came out all jumbled together. “Medownput, downputme!” the hero added an extra punch to make sure her carrier got the message because her words sounded backwards.

                “Ah!” Reaver cried out, the entire situation was uncomfortable; he was going to be bruised up and down in the morning with nothing to reminisce about. Reaver let Sparrow fall, taking only minimal pleasure in her vicious swearing when her butt collided with the cobblestones. “What are you doing awake?” He asked.

Sparrow was having trouble getting up. Her mouth was dry as paper, her head ached, and her words were coming out all slurred together.  She immediately assumed that Reaver must have done something (probably to her drink) because the last thing she could truly remember was arriving at the bar after yelling at Reaver not to use her tab.

“What,” she took a moment to ensure that her words didn’t run together and to clear her thoughts. “Have you done to me?” she looked up at Reaver, glaring. She couldn’t keep up the glare as a wave of dizziness over took her. Sparrow clenched her eyes shut and laid back on the cobblestone road. She was trying desperately to hold onto the contents of her stomach.

“Oooh.” She moaned followed by a series of curses that were so brutalized by her uncooperative tongue they hardly distinguishable from her nauseated moaning.

“Why I defended your honor, Hero. I was then attempting to get you home, but all of these bloody houses look the same. Also your directions were about as useful as Theresa’s.”

Sparrow raised one hand to her forehead, an all too familiar gesture, “Shuddup! My ‘ouse is right there.” She pointed with her free hand at a modest two story house that stood alone just off of the garden.

Reaver turned, surprised, to look at the house. It was situated right next to the garden and though he could see only a little of it in the light of the streetlamps, he thought it looked downright charming. It was certainly not to his taste and completely unexpected of someone like Sparrow. The pirate returned his attention to the woman, now sitting grumpily on the ground, and offered her his hand.

                “My lady.”

Sparrow looked at the hand suspiciously. “I’d rather crawl.”

                “Then by all means, Hero, lead the way.”

Sparrow staggered to her feet. There was no way that she was going to accept help from the man who put her in this state in the first place. “Go on, laugh it up.” She managed a few steps on her own before her legs decided walking straight was too useful. For the third time that week, Sparrow found herself in Reaver’s arms.

Reaver caught her just as her legs gave out, “Of course, but I’d never take advantage of a woman who’s been dosed with sleep syrup, Sparrow. It’s no fun when only I remember.” He tucked a bit of hair behind her ear. “Your braid has come undone.” 

Reaver’s face was too close to hers, Sparrow felt crossed eyed as she stared at him. “Sleep syrup?” she asked softly. She could feel the poison working in her, pulling her back under. “Who?”

                “Alex, he could have added it to your drink when the waitress left it next to him at the bar.”

Sparrow felt her limbs relax completely and her eyelids grow heavy, “Shit.” She whispered before falling into unconsciousness.

The morning came swiftly and passed without as much as a stir in the dusty innards of Sparrow’s house. It was 4:30 in the afternoon by the Village Crier’s count when Sparrow finally opened her eyes, all trace of the drug erased from her system. The hero laid there for a while, thinking over the events of the previous night, her mounting debt to Reaver, and, lastly, what she was going to do about Alex. Sparrow was thinking much more clearly now then she had been last night. She remembered her conversation with Reaver in the garden and came to the conclusion that he was probably telling the truth. She had drunk from his mug for most of the night and her memory didn’t get fuzzy until midway through her chat with Alex. _I’m going to have to apologize._ Groaning, Sparrow rolled out of bed feeling remarkably well rested and, upon noticing that she was still wearing her travel clothes, decided she was going to take a long, hot bath. Her hair was tangled mess, she could feel it, and she was sure that she had layer upon of grime on her skin and clothes.

                “Reaver?” Sparrow called out, it would be embarrassing for her to have him walk in during the middle of her bath. She walked over to poke the extra bed that was placed in the corner of the open plan second floor. As it had looked from across the room, the bed was empty. “Reaver?” Sparrow hurried over to the stairs and jogged down them to the first floor. She smiled a little when she finally spotted him, asleep in her reading chair with a book spread open on his lap. He was slouched in the armchair, his face turned to the side and resting half on his shoulder and half on the cushiony back of the chair, his right arm hanging over the side.

Sparrow went back to the second floor, grabbed a blanket from the second bed, and returned to the sleeping Reaver to lay it gently over him. She slipped the book from his lap before making her final adjustment with the blanket.

                “Fool pirate.” She whispered shaking her head silently at how peaceful he seemed. “What were you reading-?” Sparrow flipped the book over and immediately recognized the binding as her own. Throughout her travels she had found many notes, maps, and manuscripts. With some help from the owner of the Bowerstone bookstore, Sparrow had learned to bind the pages of her finds into books and had lined her personal bookshelves with them. The book that Reaver had fallen asleep reading was one of Sparrow’s later works. The book was a collection of research notes that Sparrow had been given while helping Belle with her excavation of the Fairfax gardens.  She placed it back on the shelf; _that’s why he fell asleep in my chair._ She thought, amused by the image of Reaver reading the dull notes.  

Now that she’d found Reaver dead asleep, Sparrow could focus on her bath. She was sure that if yelling his name and moving the book hadn’t woke him then a bath wouldn’t. Also, she really didn’t want to wait.

~~~

Arfur rammed his fist into the other man's stomach, his eyes reflecting coldly in the afternoon light that filtered in through the broken window. His time in Bowerstone Prison had made him hard. Harder than his younger days when he’d been content working in the shadow of Nicky the Nickname. Arfur was stronger now, ambitious even. He waited as the bedraggled man retched onto the floor. Bowerstone was ripe for the picking. No bandits to compete with, no crime lords to cozy up to, no Nicky the Nickname. Arfur had seen to that himself and it seemed he should have dealt with little Sparrow personally as well.

"I were up early this mornin'. Could a slept in, right, couldn't I?" he pushed the crouched man over with his foot. "Couldn't I Alex?"

"I tried! I tried!" Alex shouted in his defense. "You said she traveled alone!"

"Hear that Reg? It’s all me fault isn’t?” Arfur addressed the gypsy woman shackled to the wall with mocking expression. "Me informant were bad. The ship captain lied. Reg forged the bloomin' letter she got from Sparrow 'erself! Right!" Arfur kicked Alex in the side again and again until the man managed to scream out another excuse.

"Reaver," Alex gasped, "Reaver was with her!”

Arfur stopped, his foot inches away from driving into Alex’s side again. “Maybe yer should start from the beginnin'?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adjusted this chapter from the previous version and made it just a little longer. Hope you enjoyed seeing Arfur again, what a dick bag.


	4. Step Aside Nicky the Nickname

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arfur steps up his revenge plans and Alex is caught in the middle. Reaver and Sparrow participate in a book discussion.

“If you woke up in a strange house hearing those noises, you would go investigate. I would bet my favorite painting, the one I had done just after the tenth burning of the Hero’s Guild a fantastic piece you know that man was the first to capture the peculiar curve of my jaw when I make this face.” Reaver slicked back his soaking wet hair and posed. “See?”

Sparrow, dressed in a clean shirt and breeches with her damp hair pulled over loosely one shoulder, glared at the pirate clearly slightly amused by his rambling excuse as to why he had been watching her bathe. She leaned back in her chair, the wooden back pressing uncomfortably against her shoulders, and propped her feet on the table.

                “Reaver, light burn you, I will dump another bucket of water on you.”

Reaver fingered his damp shirt, “You could just ask me to take it off, you know.” He smirked pleased by the red that bloomed beneath Sparrow’s tan.

                “You’re impossible, you know that?”

                “Dear Madam, I know, but if I am impossible than you are positively thorny.” Reaver laughed leaning closer to Sparrow.  He was enjoying this _wooing_ thing. It’d been an awfully long time since he’d bothered with it.

                “I am not! I just don’t inflate your ego like everyone else!” Sparrow poked him playfully in the chest laughing with fake indignation at Reaver’s accusation. “I must be the only person who doesn’t. Even Hammer, light bless her-“

                “She did not! The boar whipped me with the rope she called hair every minute she got!”  Reaver shuddered at the memory of the giantess’s red dreadlocks whipping across his face, wet and hairy and reeking of whatever muck Sparrow had just lead them through.  “Disgusting!”

Now it was Sparrow’s turn to lean forward, a knowing smile on her lips, “Did she ever say no to yer?”

Reaver shook his head, “I worked hard building up my ego. I needed no help doing it.”

The hero fell back into her chair. She dropped her hand reflexively, letting it hang in the air for her dog’s wet nose to push into her palm. She smiled, a particularly witty response waiting on her tongue but she stopped realizing what she had done. Tobar’s searching nose didn’t press against her palm and then Sparrow remembered it never would again. Suddenly her embarrassment at being caught naked seemed pathetic against this simple reminder of what she lost.

                “Reaver?” 

 She stared at Reaver and he stared back. Here it was, the moment she should shoot him in the knees. The moment where she should make him crawl out of her house with his pretty face twisted until no one would ever want him again so he could feel half of what she felt, live half the life she had.

                “Yes?” he answered, his voice soft, his eyes shimmering with some emotion that Sparrow couldn’t name. Here was the point where she told him to leave and meant it.  Reaver could read it in her face, in her body. She was thinking about that bitter and bloody connection they shared. First he had tried to sacrifice her to the Shadow Court (he had no idea how she had gotten out of that) and then he had given her up to Lucien, an action that had led to capture of the Three Heroes (himself, a brutish woman known as Hammer, and the will scarred mage Garth) and the death of Sparrow’s beloved dog.  Unbidden, excuses began to spring up in his mind. He’d changed his mind after his deal with Lucien after meeting her. He’d stopped feeding information to Lucien but somehow he had known about the ritual anyway. She had changed something in him, unlocked a part of himself that he had lost.

                “Shut-up.” Her voice wavered and Sparrow turned her face away, unable to continue looking into those eyes. She would deal with all of this later in an uninterrupted bath. She would process this bundle of feelings and what Reaver wanted and why she couldn’t seem to send him away later.

~~~

Arfur crouched with several of his goons and Alex in the bushes outside of Sparrow’s house. That it was the house that she and her sister used to squat next to did not escape him. After Alex’s failed attempt at nabbing the girl, Arfur was convinced he’d have to pull off every aspect of his revenge personally.

                “Woss our move boss?” one of the goons asked Arfur.

Arfur slapped the man on the back of his head. “O'course not! We'll strike wen she's alone! Blimey! Wen she least expects it! You want deal wif Reaver?”

The brute shook his head quickly. No one in their right mind wanted to deal with Reaver firsthand. Cruel, manipulative, and –if you believed the tales—immortal, Reaver was a force to be reckoned with and certainly not one Arfur wanted to take on at the same time as the Hero of Bowerstone. 

Arfur motioned for them to move out and once they were sequestered in the abandoned warehouse at the edge of Old Town, Arfur turned his mind to plotting.

                “Did any fairy spot yer put the sleep syrup in Sparrows pint?”

Alex, bruised and beaten as he was, shook his head enthusiastically. “No, no one saw.”

Arfur nodded thoughtfully, “Fink she'd meet yer again, then, eh? Wivout the boy toy?”

                “Yeah, I think she might.”

                “Midnight, right, Bowerstone Clock tower. Make sure she's there. Alone. We'll be waitin'. If yer fuck this up, right, Alex, and yer'll be gahn on a wee walk off Poor man’s Point.”

~~~

Alex shifted nervously, hunching his shoulders as a gust of wind whistled through the side street. He should have stopped gambling when his fiancée found out. Oh if she could see him now, broke and working for Arfur. Well the crook would have to forgive his debts now, after he, Alex Krane, helped to bring down a national icon.  He huddled against the wall; a figure had just stepped out of the house their silhouette framed by the setting sun. Tall and lean, for a moment Alex thought it was Sparrow and his stomach dropped. How was he going to get her to the Clock tower? If he was honest with himself, Alex knew he was no good with women. He was limited to the few women who enjoyed a man who bumbled nervously through conversations unable to choose between looking at the breasts or eyes and eventually choosing his own feet.  While he was being honest with himself he might as well admit that he was also a terrible gambler. Alex shook his head; it’d have to be a mix of the truth then. Sparrow was the Hero of Bowerstone after all. If he told her that he’d been challenged to a dual in which, being a peaceful man, he stood no chance she would have to help him.

The figure strode past broodingly. It was the man who had ruined Alex’s attempts at drugging Sparrow the night before. Reaver’s handsome face was drawn into a scowl and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets. Clearly something was bothering the pirate as he was mumbling feverishly under his breath. Alex only caught a few words as the man passed but he thought they were “bloody court”, “shit bargain”, and “just a mutt.” Alex leaned out of his hiding spot to see if Reaver had left the lane that ran past. Seeing no sign of the pirate he collected himself and limped to Sparrow’s house.

                An hour or so earlier, Reaver flipped idly through another of Sparrow’s books. It was a carefully rebound copy of the Hero of Oakvale. It was one of many versions of the legendary tale although one of the less popular.  Reaver scanned a page and then another. He’d bet a hundred gold that this Maze fellow was going to stab the Hero in the back. A name caught his attention causing Reaver to pause and reread the previous page to understand its context. The second paragraph of the previous page described the Oakvale docks in obscene detail. Skipping this, Reaver focused on the dialogue between The Hero and his will-user mentor Maze.

                _“Your sister, Theresa, is alive. I believe she is the Bandit King’s blind seer. It would explain his recent good…fortune. If you follow the coast you’ll come across his camp. She’ll be at his side with her eyes covered by s”_

Reaver straightened and read the line again. Theresa, blind seer, could she be the same as-?

                “Have you read this one?” He asked easily hiding his interest in the answer.

Sparrow looked up from the pile of letters she was sorting through on the floor. The fireplace was littered with the smoldering remains of what she had insisted was junk mail. Sparrow instantly recognized the book’s cover.

                “Yeah, I grew up hearing it from Cloud the storyteller in the gypsy camp. It was one of the first tales I wrote down. I broke the binding I read it so much.”

                “Not a popular version though, is it?”

Sparrow thought for a moment, chewing her lower lip. “No it’s not. I’ve only heard it once or twice outside of the camp. Why?”

                “This passage here. Read it carefully and tell me what you think.” He stood from his chair and crossed the short distance between himself and Sparrow. “Just there.” He knelt next to her and pointed at the line he had just read.

Sparrow read the few paragraphs Reaver had indicated silently. Her lips twitched slightly as she partly mouthed the words. She was familiar with the story but it had been a longtime since she had read this part. As a child, Sparrow had badgered Cloud the storyteller into skipping to the good parts. The battle with the White Balverine, the fall of Lady Grey, The Arena,  anything involving Whisper or Briar Rose(though there was little known of Whisper’s exploits), Maze’s betrayal, the burning of the Guild of Heroes, and the Hero’s battles against Jack of Blades. Sparrow looked up at Reaver, sweeping her braid off her shoulder, and blew a puff of air in his face.

                “So the Hero’s sister was alive, everyone knows that. “

                Reaver rolled his eyes. “Do you honestly find no similarity between this description,” he tapped the book in her lap. “And your foster mother out there?” he jerked his head in the direction of the Spire.

                Sparrow frowned; there was a glint in those grey eyes of his. A very familiar and unsettling glint. She slapped the book shut only just missing Reaver’s fingers. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Reaver.”

                “Sparrow, take it from one who knows. Beauty will only get you so far in this world. Well, actually, it has gotten _me_ very far in life. It’s the cheekbones really-“

                “Oh shove off!” the hero punched Reaver in the shoulder overbalancing him. He fell back onto his butt and grunted. “Theresa and the Hero of Oakvale’s sister are _not_ the same person! It’s a coincidence!”

                “The thought has never crossed your mind? Not once? Not even for a second?” He rubbed his shoulder; the girl did not know her own strength.

Sparrow’s eyebrows crunched together and she turned her eyes away from Reaver’s piercing gaze.

“So it has.”

“It’s been 500 years since the Hero defeated Jack o’Blades. The Hero and his sister are dead.”

Reaver let his mouth curl into an ironic smile.

Sparrow caught a glimpse of it from the corner of her eye and turned on him. The thought had occurred to Sparrow before, in the dead of night. She had always shied away from the thought though, like she was afraid of it. Sparrow had never asked Theresa or mentioned the old seer’s resemblance to her legendary counterpart. “She can’t be! I lived with her for years! I would have noticed if she were sacrificing random innocents to the Shadow Court!”

                “I am positive that you would have noticed, my dear, but there are other ways of gaining immortality.”

Sparrow threw her hands in the air, “I’m not talking about this anymore! Theresa lives in the Spire now you know where it is so go ask her yourself!” Sparrow pinched the bridge of her nose groaning in a mixture of annoyance. “I need a drink.”

Reaver took in Sparrow’s bent form, she knew something. He didn’t know for sure if there were other ways of gaining immortality but he didn’t think it unreasonable.  With a sigh, the pirate decided to let the matter go for now. It clearly unsettled Sparrow and while he found disturbing Sparrow the epitome of entertainment he could only push her so far before she began lobbing fireballs at him.

                “To the Cow and Corset then?”

Sparrow shivered involuntarily, “Aye.” She muttered shutting her eyes as the shiver ran its course down her spine. The fire at her back felt uncomfortably hot now and the room stifling, yet gooseflesh rose on her arms. For a brief moment, Sparrow felt the stabbing pulse of the Spire again. The pulse was everywhere, all consuming. It rattled her bones and beat inside of her skull stealing her thoughts away and forcing her breath out in a long, strained hiss. Hours seemed to drag by as the pulse pushed and pulled and beat at her. Then, as quickly as the shiver came, it was gone and Sparrow was released. She opened her eyes to find only a second or two had passed. Sparrow wondered if she had merely imagined the pulse of the Spire, but she felt her whole body trembling.

                “Go get us a table. I have to…uh…go see the guard about these beetle bounties.”


	5. Law and Order: Bowerstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex plays the damsel. Sparrow plays detective. Reaver waits for his chance to play femme fatale.

Sparrow waited until Reaver’s shadow passed by the window before she hauled herself to her feet. She took a shaky breath, held it, and then breathed it out in a steady stream through her pursed lips. Sparrow repeated this several times before the hollow chill of the Spire left her. She secured her hair in a simple braid closing her eyes to focus on the repetitive pattern. It brought a faint smile to her lips. Rose used to braid her hair, weaving in flowers in the spring and picking out leaves and twigs in the fall. Sparrow allowed herself to slip into the memory. Rose’s chiding voice warning her about Jack O’Blades coming for naughty children who didn’t listen to their big sisters. Sparrow tied off the braid, opening her eyes with a feeling of peace. A knock at the door, frantic and loud, jarred her from the happy memory. Grabbing the beetle bounties off the floor, Sparrow hurried to answer the door. 

                “Evening,” Sparrow was shocked to see Alex, standing hunched on the stairs clutching at his battered tri-cornered hat with white knuckles. He was a mess. His shallow and quick breaths indicating an injury to his ribcage and there were several bruises that were beginning to swell on his face. “Alex, by the Light what happened to you?” Sparrow blurted out, her promise to get to the bottom of the incident at the tavern last night forgotten at the sight of the injured man.  She moved aside, allowing space for him to pass through the doorway and into the house. “Come in, I’ll get some bandages.”

                “No, no I’ll be fine miss. I’ll just take a moment of your time.” Alex paused for breath and to glance quickly around for any sign of Arfur’s gang. He was satisfied with the number his disheveled and injured appearance was doing on Sparrow.  She was the picture of concern with her pale eyebrows furrowed and her plump lips dropping into a pout as he continued. “I am in a spot of trouble and it’s already cost me my bride to be and now it’ll cost me my life if you don’t help me, miss.” Alex did not have to fake the urgency and panic with which he spoke these words. He was in trouble. He had already lost his fiancé to this mess and the likely hood of his survival was getting increasingly small. The lady hero Sparrow was his only chance. Once Alex had turned her over to Arfur he’d skip town head over to Oakfield maybe work on a farm for the rest of his days.

Sparrow crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “What can I do Alex? Who did this to you?”

                “Arfur and his gang. I-“he stopped, and glanced again at the garden again, “I can’t talk here.”

                Sparrow felt a jolt of fear at the name. Arfur. She shouldn’t be surprised that that scum was still alive. Snakes like him had a way surviving longer than good descent folk. She had nothing but bad memories of the man. He propositioned Rose daily, promising hot meals, coin, and a bed for the night. He had never done anything to Sparrow in particular, not more than a quick appraisal like she was a cow at market. If Arfur was back and head of a gang if she had heard Alex right then it was only more bad news. Sparrow had handed over the lost warrants that lead to the breaking up of Nicky the Nickname’s gang and Arfur’s subsequent arrest to a guard right in front of the slimy bastard. Arfur had no doubt about who had put him in Bowerstone Prison.  If he knew she was in town then he would be coming for her.

“Then come in,” she urged Alex, “have a cup of tea while I look at your wounds. In my experience broken ribs do a lot more harm to your innards then good.”

                “Thanks but I’ll manage. If you’ll meet me tonight at midnight by the clock tower we can hide in the tavern crowd. I don’t want Arfur to know I’ve gone to you, you see? I’ll tell you what he wants from me, it’s a horrible thing he wants me to do. Midnight at the clock tower.”   Quickly, Alex scrunched his hat onto his head and turned to leave. “A horrible thing, hero, a terrible thing he wants of me. Please come?”

                “Aye, I’ll be there.” Sparrow assured him and straightened to her full height. Using her hero voice, calm and confident and full of gravity, Sparrow reached out and gently laid a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “My word as a hero Alex, you will be free of Arfur come morning.”

                “I hope so, Hero.” Alex tipped his hat to Sparrow before making his slow painful way from her house and back into the street. “I hope so.”

~~~

By the time that Sparrow arrived at the Cow and Corset, Reaver had gotten bored waiting at their table and had relocated himself to the games table.  She could just barely see him through the crowd that was pressing in around the no doubt highs stakes game of spinner box. His laughter carried over the noise of the tavern and Sparrow decided to take a seat at the bar rather than pull him away from the game. She had his little purse of custom ammo tucked safely away in the top of her left boot so, should the game go poorly, the simple citizens of Bowerstone would not have to fear being shot through the eye.  

                “Glad to see you feeling better, Sparrow! Nasty weak ale they must ‘ave up North, eh?” the bartender commented cheerfully. He was a stout man in his late forties, who had fed Sparrow and her sister scraps out of the kitchen when she was a child. When Sparrow bought the tavern she had remembered his kindness and left him in charge of the day to day running of the business (along with a nice raise).

                “The ale is plenty strong up North, Barnard.” Sparrow said with a friendly smile as she pulled a stool out from under the heavy oak bar. “But they call it mead and the women brew it from honey. Packs a wallop it does.”

Barnard’s salt and pepper eyebrows nearly touched his hairline as he repeated the young hero’s words incredulously. “Brewed from honey by woman? Nay, say it’s not so! Women, ye say? Honey?” he wiped at this bar fervently. “Preposterous!”

Sparrow rolled her eyes, Barnard was a good man but he still had rather strict views on what a man or woman could or could not do. Sparrow never asked him what he thought of her hero work. However, he couldn’t be too opposed to it. Anytime something invaded the cellar, Barnard turned to Sparrow before the guards.

                “I’ll take a tea and any information you have on Alex, the bloke I was talking to last night?”

Barnard tucked his washcloth into his apron and nodded happily. “A sad one he is, Alex, lost his fiancé a few months back been seeing him less and less in here since.” Barnard leaned over slightly to retrieve a mug and teapot from under the bar. He gave both a quick wipe with his cloth while Sparrow took in the information.

                Sparrow leaned forward on the bar, “So he was regular customer before?”

                “Aye, he was in here almost every night sittin where your pretty new friend is right now.” Barnard stepped away from the counter to fill the teapot with hot water from the kettle on the fire.

Turning slowly, Sparrow looked back at the spinner box table. Fewer patrons were gathered around it now; most had drifted over to the band that was tuning on the terraced back corner of the tavern. She could see Reaver much more clearly now. His cheeks were flushed and his dark hair was perfect despite the number of time he seemed to be running a hand through it. He really was pretty and admitting that was nothing strange, Sparrow thought to herself, it was a simple fact. Reaver was an attractive man to anyone who likes dark haired and grey eyed men with exquisitely chiseled features. _And I certainly don’t_ , Sparrow thought, _so let that be the end of that!_

                “Cream or sugar?” Barnard asked with a secretive smile. He had noticed Sparrow staring at her companion and Barnard liked to think he could recognize a smitten girl when he saw one.  

                “None thanks.” Sparrow turned hastily away from the spectacle of the spinner box table. “So,” Sparrow tested the tea with her finger, too hot, “a man who is a known gambler and drinker leaves his fiancé at the altar. She jumps off a cliff to her death and that’s when he decides to cut back on his vices?” Sparrow idly ran her finger around the lip of the mug. “That doesn’t sound like a man who has lost his true love to me. Most men’d dive deeper.”

                “And that’s the puzzling bit cause his little beau had a fair amount of gold to her name. So why would he not marry her? She had enough to pay his debts and to start them off fresh.”

                “Then why would he not go through with it?” Sparrow wondered aloud, tapping the edge of her mug.

                “Who not go through with what?”

Sparrow suppressed the surprise that ran through her at Reaver’s voice sounding directly over her shoulder. She tested her tea again, forcing an aura of calm. “Alex not marry his intended. He would have been set for life if he had.” 

Reaver seated himself on the stool next to Sparrow; He turned so that he was facing her, one elbow resting on the bar and both feet on the floor ready to stand should there be trouble.  “Well, your boy probably got in over his head. Like you are hero.”

Sparrow raised her eyebrows incredulously but didn’t reply right away, she had an idea. “Barnard? You think Alex loved the girl?”

The bartender thought her question over for a minute before nodding, “Aye that he did. Never touched a coin of hers but,” here Barnard sighed dramatically as he picked up another glass to clean. “He loved the game more in the end I suppose.”

                Sparrow nodded excitedly, “You’re right Reaver. Alex was in over his head, swimming in debt to the wrong people, and he tried to shield his fiancé from it. Jilted the poor soul.”

                Reaver looked at her curiously, “Do you think she was murdered?”

                “She walked off that cliff herself.” Sparrow lifted her mug to her lips and sipped the earthy liquid. _She would have mentioned her own murder_. Sparrow suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at that memory of the chatty ghost. The woman had seemed at once extremely overwrought at her ruined wedding and smug that she was such a talking point in the city. “But Alex won’t if we don’t help.”

                “Tis a reason we call it Poor man’s Point.” Barnard looked Sparrow straight in the eye. “Alex may be a slimy, penniless drunk but he’s one of us. A Bowerstone man! Lucien shadows blight ‘im, took enough from this town. Don’t you give that Nickname gang more of a foothold, Sparrow.”

                “He is a rat. Best let him drown.” Reaver shook his head. “Then he and his lovely can work out who hurt who more.”

                Sparrow lowered her eyes in thought. _Alex, now there’s a mess._ He was a weak man certainly, but not an evil man and Sparrow couldn’t justify abandoning him to Arfur.  “No, we’ll help him.” Sparrow raised her eyes to meet Reaver’s steely gaze. She could see the condemnation in his eyes, the inability to tolerate weakness in others.  “Tonight, midnight at the clock tower. He’ll be there and so will Arfur.” Sparrow dropped a hand to the hidden pocket in the top of her boot. She pulled out Reaver’s ammunition purse and pressed it against his chest. “Ready for some shooting practice?”


	6. Tick tock, tick tock goes the clock.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaver's hallucinations worsen. Sparrow triggers a trap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time but I wanted to preserve the original flow from chapter to chapter this time.

Reaver had expected something a little more exciting than this. He lounged in a rickety wooden chair on the balcony of the Cow and Corset, gun in one hand drink in the other, waiting.

"This is rather dull. Why don't we just shoot them all?" he raised his gun and looked down the site at the square. "You are taking all the fun out of being underhanded." Reaver heard Sparrow's soft footsteps as she stepped onto the balcony.

"If we just start shooting from here Arfur'll bolt." Sparrow chided him.

Reaver sipped from his glass savoring the oaky tones of the amber liquid. "You have history with this Arfur character don't you, Hero? Oh wait, I don't care as long as I get to shoot someone." He knocked back the remaining contents of his glass.

Sparrow shook her head as she checked her clockwork pistol one last time. "Glad to know your heart's in the right place." She studied Reaver out of the corner of her eye. He seemed his usual self now rude, drunk, and trigger happy. He had already tried to shoot three patrons of the tavern after Sparrow had returned his bullets. Sparrow was surprised at the sense of disappointment she almost felt at his return. But on the other hand Reaver was full of disappointment and Sparrow had never been too interested in introspection. So, the hero blew her feelings out in a steady, clear note that marked the beginning of a song whose words she had long forgotten.

Reaver shifted his eyes to the hero; he knew that song though it had been an awfully long time since he had heard it. A folksong from Oakvale, if he was not mistaken. He watched as Sparrow spun her pistol in a circle on her index finger before locking it into its holster on her hip. Her lips were still pursed as she whistled away. She looked at him, sensing his gaze, and stopped whistling.

"Bee in your bonnet?" She asked tilting her head, studying him with fiery green eyes like he was a particularly difficult puzzle that she was determined to solve.

Reaver blinked slowly; perhaps the liquor was stronger than he had anticipated. With more concentration then it should have required, Reaver lifted the glass in his hand and threw it out over the balcony. It smashed against the clock tower raining shards down on the empty street.

"Do your job Hero and I'll do mine."

Sparrow shrugged unoffended by his display. "Just don't shoot me and leave Arfur to me." She swung over the balcony railing and held on with one hand as she stared back at Reaver. "Got it?"

Reaver he rolled his eyes in answer and brought his Dragonstomper to eye level. “Are you stalling little Sparrow?”

Her lips twitched and Reaver noted that her knuckles were white as she gripped the railing for stability.

“A flashy entrance is rendered moot if one botches it because one has an irrational fear of heights. A drop like that,” he motioned lazily at where she hung, “will hardly sting your feet. Stick to the plan, remember?”

She leveled a haughty glare at him but wordlessly released the railing dropping to the street below. Reaver grinned at the startled gasp that must have belonged to that pathetic creature Alex; Sparrow did have a flare for the dramatic after all.

_“It’ll be the biggest celebration Oakvale has ever seen!”_  Her voice echoed in his ears and Reaver blanched his free hand grasping the edge of the table. This was not the time. He struggled to pull his focus back to the present even as she appeared before him, a vision of gold and blue such hope and joy shining in her eyes. _“Do say you’ll come?”_ Reaver twisted away from the specter looking out at the Bowerstone Market, focusing his gray eyes on the dark shadows beneath the clock tower.

“Send them running, Sparrow.” He whispered through gritted teeth. Still his memories threatened to overwhelm him.

_“I don’t believe you! He would never!”_

A figure shot out from the shelter of the clock tower, tripping over itself as it scrambled away from the meeting place. Reaver fired once and the figure collapsed to the cobblestones.

_“You are no better than him, a reaver of all that is good in this world.”_

With a snarl of rage, Reaver surged to his feet aiming his famed pistol at the space where he saw her. Her blue dress was torn; blood ran down the side of her face staining her golden hair. She was just another body in the desolation that surrounded him.

“Reaver, bloody hell!” Sparrow’s voice pitched higher than her usual mellow tone broke him from his vision. Will lines blazed across her skin and the world moved in slow motion around her. “Let’s go!” she screamed again and Reaver realized that she had pulled his gun from his hand and had a tight grip on his arm. He glanced towards the clock tower confused, what was she doing on the balcony? His jaw dropped when he saw the Bowerstone Clock Tower exploding in slow motion. Fire ripped at its base sending bricks flying out at an inching pace. The tower shuddered and buckled as more explosions occurred at the base. Reaver realized too late that the destruction was speeding up as Sparrow’s spell wore off.  She flung herself at him slamming them both onto the wood planks of the balcony’s floor just as the world broke free of Sparrow’s spell.


	7. The Benefits of Good Aim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaver is still trapped in his hallucinations of his past. Sparrow shows why the people call her a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite, favorite way to kill in Fable 2 is to max out Skill and just snipe away at the body parts of the bandits. If you haven't shot an enemy in the crotch in Fable 2 yet, then please go do it. It's immensely satisfying. Particularly in light of recent political events....

Consciousness came to him in a sudden gasp of dusty air. He choked, his body convulsing as much as the heavy weight that pinned him to the ground would allow. On some unconscious level he registered screams, at once deafening and muffled as though they came from a long ways off. With a groan, Reaver pushed feebly at the weight on his chest. Dimly, he remembered Sparrow tackling him to the ground, so, judging from the female voice that was now coming to consciousness by his ear, it must be her laying like a dead log on top of him.

                “Get off.” Reaver coughed and pushed at her once more. She rolled off him easily enough and landed limply on her side. Their legs were still tangled but he could breathe again. Reaver breathed in deeply, enjoying the feel of his lungs expanding to their fullest. Instead of the cool night air the pirate imagined, he got a lungful of smoke and dust. Reaver devolved once again into a fit of coughing. When he stopped coughing, he began cataloguing his every ache and pain so that he could repay whoever blew up the bloody clock tower. He felt Sparrow stir next to him.

                “Do you see a way out?” Sparrow asked softly. 

“My eyes aren’t even open.” Reaver’s voice cracked a little but he didn’t notice. For a wild moment Reaver felt a rush of fear, he couldn’t see anything. He wiped at his eyes and his hand came away sticky and wet. He tried again to open his eyes, his eyelashes came apart slowly. A bright blue light filled his vision and he blinked several times, wiping more half dried blood from his forehead as well, before his eyes adjusted to the light. A shimmering field of Will kept the debris off them, forming a half-dome just big enough for the two of them. He looked over at Sparrow intricate patterns burned a bright azure in her skin.

"You are lit up like a Beltane bonfire at midnight." Reaver replied hoarsely. Her clothes were hardly more than dirty, blood soaked rags. Her emerald eyes were half-open, strands of her copper hair were pasted to her skin by sweat and blood, and blood dripped down her chin from her split lower lip.

"You look worse than Lucien after a decade in the Spire, Hero." Unconsciously, Reaver reached out to push the loose strands of hair from her face.

Sparrow coughed then groaned at the pain it caused. "Buried under a clock tower and yer still tryin to flirt." She said wryly through gritted teeth. "Incorrigible."

"I am nothing if not optimistic."

Sparrow's mouth twitched in amusement but she quickly settled back to the frown Reaver was accustomed too. "One good push and I could get us out of here."

"Then by all means."

"I have no idea who's around us out there." Sparrow looked up at the debris waiting just beyond her shield to crush them. "I don't want to hurt anyone else."

Reaver watched her, annoyance rising up in his chest. "Sparrow," he whispered sharply.  A hundred different responses to her concerns raced through his mind. She was more concerned about hurting another villager than saving them? What kind of mad woman was she? _The kind that sacrifices the only family she's known for the lives of others._ He pushed back the guilt ridden thought. Guilt was not something he felt. Ever. Besides, there was nothing he could do now to change what he had done, and now was certainly not the time to wallow in emotions that he thought he had purged himself of decades ago.

Sparrow interrupted Reaver's introspective wallowing (which he had ended up doing anyway) with a brisk, "Let's do this then." Before Reaver had any chance to respond, Sparrow had her eyes closed and her blue Will lines were growing brighter and brighter. The shimmering shield that had kept them safe disappeared and, as the debris began to fall, Sparrow's will pulsed outwards.

The sun’s rays were just beginning to tint the sky with morning light. He rubbed his eyes and his hand came away with smears of red on it. The rogue wasn't surprised to see his own blood but he was unsettled by it. He felt a wave of nausea and took a grateful, deep breath of fresh air but it was clotted with smoke. He choked and coughed to clear his lungs until he was doubled over and breathless. Beside him Sparrow was muttering something but it was drowned out by the wailing and the screams of the people of Bowerstone and his own struggles to breath. He was immortal but at this moment he was reminded that he was not invulnerable. Reaver allowed Sparrow to guide them out of the smoking ruins of The Cow and Corset; he honestly couldn't have stopped her, the head wound coupled with the hacking cough he couldn’t seem to shake left him unbalanced.

They were forced to stop several times when their path was blocked by debris. Each time their path was blocked, Sparrow raised her hand and a blast of Will cleared the path. When they reached the bridge he saw _her_ standing just before the drinks stall. Her blonde curls were disheveled and her blue eyes were rimmed red and full of tears.

 _"How could you do this?"_ She shouted at him her voice filled with confusion and horror.

"I didn't know." Reaver knew he shouldn’t answer, shouldn’t give this apparition any more power but he did. His head pounded and for the moment he forgot Sparrow.

_"Your friends! Your family!"_

"I didn't know! Please! I didn't know!" He couldn’t stand to see _her_ anymore. He hadn’t known what the Shadows wanted from him.

_"You let me die. You let the shadows take me."_

"Reaver, whatever you're seeing it isn't real." Sparrow's voice sounded strained. He realized dimly that she was practically supporting them both. "Snap out of it! I can't carry us both!"

Reaver tried to get his feet back under him but his legs shook. His vision swam in and out of focus; the ghost morphed into a pox marked man in a patched suit. Reaver could feel Sparrow’s body tense beside him.

 "Arfur." She growled and suddenly Reaver could feel her rage like a fire burning in her skin.

"Sparrow!" The man slapped his hand against his thigh. "I fought it were yer! Yer've grown since last I seen yer." He raked his eyes over the hero. "Almost pretty now, 'course we boff know Rose were the pretty one."

"Don't you say her name!"

"Or wot, wee Sparrow? Yer'll bleed on me?" He scoffed and stepped forward as if conveying some sensitive information. “He’s 'ardly spoilin' for a fight, birdie. It's just yer and me now."

Sparrow moved quickly, her left hand rose up and the sharp report of a pistol sounded. Arfur doubled over, his own pistol dropping from his hand unfired. He howled in pain and clutched at the blossoming red stain at his crotch. The mobster fell to his knees and looked up at Sparrow, his face a twisted mask of pain and rage, and screamed "Yer bitch!"

Sparrow said nothing. She merely aimed Reaver's Dragonstomper at Arfur's head and squeezed the trigger.

After that Reaver's recollection of events got very hazy. He hoped that Sparrow did not drop his beloved weapon to the cobblestones, but he was not sure that she didn't. He might have heard her say something like "This damn seal better still work" or it could have been "Aim better ye damn shark." Whatever she said, only moments later his vision was filled with a blue light and then darkness.


	8. A Rosie Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose tries to play big sister from beyond the grave. Reaver gets several consecutive hours of sleep for the first time in his life. Sparrow gets stubborn about Reaver participating in her sharing circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I start to take a lot of liberties with the Fable canon. Reaver is solidly out of character in comparison with his game self for the entirety of this fic. I've always operated with the idea that, as an immortal character, Reaver is more than happy to experiment with different versions of himself. Overall he's a selfish, narcissistic ass, but he wasn't completely like that when he was "mortal." Those aspects of his character have grown and become exaggerated over time. For the purpose of this story, Sparrow has met Reaver during a morale dip in his long life span, he's mopey, he's nostalgic, and he's exploring that for once because, when you're immortal, life is long. You find news ways to make the time pass. 
> 
> This was inconsistent before, but from this point forward the Fable 2 "Gypsies" will be referred to as "Travelers" simply because of the historically unpleasant associations with the slur "gypsy." This is a new edit and I may miss some instances. I will do my best to carry this change over to all new chapters. I am sorry for not switching this term earlier and if "Travelers" is similarly offensive please let me know and I will sub in a different term.

Sparrow gripped the seal tightly in her left fist while she struggled to hold onto Reaver's now limp body with her right arm. If she weren't so close to passing out herself she'd complain about having to carry him out like a damsel in distress.  Instead she gritted her teeth and limped her way to the bed on the other side of the circle. Her wounds were already healing but still every movement was filled with pain. Her whole body hurt and while no part was worse than the other anymore, it was all still a sharp, persistent ache.

It was ten steps to get to that rickety old bed that Hammer had claimed so long ago. Theresa had never slept. Not in Hammer’s presence and not in the ten years that Sparrow had shared the cramped quarters of the old seer’s caravan. So it was Hammer’s bed that Sparrow made a small effort to not drop Reaver on, and it was in Hammer’s bed that Sparrow dropped when her body decided that it had simply had enough. The hero stared up into the darkness of the Guild Cave and, for a moment, fought off her exhaustion with the humiliating thought of Reaver waking to find her next to him. In the end it wasn’t enough and Sparrow’s green eyes slid closed and she dreamed of Rose.

_Sparrow stood in a fenced field with Rose. The field was small, a side project compared to the ones she had gawked at on her first visit to Oakfield. A scarecrow was positioned near the edge of the field which was bordered by a dirt road. Sparrow watched as traveling merchants and peasants walked past. They moved quickly, their eyes focused on the road, as if she and her sister existed outside of this moment._

_“We’re too early.” Rose whispered. She looked the same as she had on the last night Sparrow had seen her. Her hair was darker than Sparrow's, the color of iron rust, and pulled up into pigtails. Her clothes were glorified rags, an amalgamation of colors that only Rose could pull off. Her eyes were the same shade of emerald as Sparrow's and somewhere beneath the smudges of ash and dirt was delicate cream colored skin. Rose would have been beautiful if she had lived._

_Sparrow nodded unquestioningly at her sister's words and tried to bring her gaze back to the road. Something important was about to happen. The morning wore on at its accelerated pace. Merchants and villagers flitted past, swept away by time._

_“Look, sis.” Time slowed to its natural pace; Rose pointed toward the road. “Watch little Sparrow.”_

_A young girl was skipping up the road. She wore a white cotton dress with a red sun and a bright smile. Her brown hair was long and unbraided as it swished against her lower back. Her eyes were blue and bright and she clutched a burlap doll in her arms. She reached the opening fence and turned into the field. She paused for a moment, blue eyes staring at Sparrow in mild surprise before turning to examine Rose. For a moment, Sparrow was sure the girl would speak to them but instead the girl blinked slowly, as if in a daze, and then hugged her doll._

_“I don’t know how to feel, Dolly.” The little girl confided in her toy. “I love my birthday but I don’t want it to happen.” She kicked at the dirt, shaking her head as she did so, “Oh Dolly I’ve never been wrong.”_

_“What is she talking about?” Sparrow whispered to Rose. Her sister only waved at her to be quiet._

_“Like how he forgot my birthday! He always forgets it. Da’ll remind him though and he’ll earn three gold pieces to buy me a present from Murgo.” She frowned, her thick brows furrowing in concentration, “I don’t know how though and I won’t get to open it.”_

_Time sped up again and Sparrow watched silently as the girl played in the field. When the sun had reached its peak time resumed its traditional pace again. Now a boy was hurrying up the road a small blue box hidden behind his back. His features matched the girl’s though his brown hair was short and untidy and he had a smattering of freckles under his blue eyes._

_“Theresa!” He called once he was in sight of the field. He jogged the last stretch; his bare brown feet left little clouds on dirt in their wake._

_Sparrow started, “Theresa? Not the same-”_

_“Shh!” Rose insisted, “You’ll miss it!”_

_“Brother!” the little girl looked up from her playing and stood. “You forgot my birthday. I knew you would.” She smiled at him and Sparrow thought she looked too sad for a little girl about to receive a present._

_“No I didn’t!” the boy professed, his blue eyes wide with feigned innocence._

_“I know you did. I dreamed it. I’ve dreamed it every night for the past week. I’ve dreamed such horrible things, brother.” Theresa’s voice wavered with emotion. Her brother stepped forward the fun gone from his face as concern for his sister took hold. “Everyone was screaming and the flames were so hot, brother. I cried so hard I couldn’t see but it didn’t bring them back. I-I couldn’t do anything!”_

_“Shh, Theresa. It’s just a dream.” Her brother pulled her into a hug. “Da says they’re just dreams. See your present? I didn’t forget.” He pushed the little blue box into her hands._

_“Promise me you’ll hide.”_

_“Theresa-“_

_“Bandits! Bandits! Bandits on the road! Guards! Help!” a merchant, blood streaming down his face and into his eyes screamed his warning as he bolted down the road. He gasped for air, preparing himself for another attempt to raise the alarm when he was cut short by a crossbow bolt through his throat._

_“Hide!” Theresa shoved at her brother as hard as she could. He was caught off balance and fell backwards hitting his head on a half-buried stone concealed by the tall blades of wheat. The blue box rolled into the grass, forgotten._

_A man walked calmly into view. He was dressed in leathers and he had bones mounted to his armor, framing his head in skulls in feathers. He carried an ebony crossbow with both hands._

_Sparrow knew him for the bandit chief immediately. It seemed that even in this vision they dressed the same._

_The Bandit Chief strode over to the slain merchant, kicking the poor man's body roughly before kneeling and ripping the bloody bolt from his throat. The action brought him eye level with the little Theresa._

_The girl was frozen in place clutching her doll to her chest tightly._

_The Bandit Chief looked up, sensing that someone was watching him, and his gaze locked on the girl. He grinned. “Get the girl!”_

_Bandits appeared on the road slipping out from the trees that shadowed it from the sun. Sparrow watched them, her anger growing, as a scarred bandit in stripped pants and tall leather boots darted forward. He grabbed Theresa and tossed her over his shoulder before the girl had even let out a scream. He went to stand next to his Chief._

_Sparrow took a step forward, will lines already beginning to burn brightly on her forearms. She hated bandits_

_"No, sis." Rose placed her hand on Sparrow's wrist and gripped it tightly, desperately. "No, sis, that's not why I brought us here. Watch and learn."_

_Sparrow stepped back, sinking down onto her haunches next to her sister. She watched, her hands clenched into tight fists, as the bandits ripped the doll from Theresa’s hands and carried Theresa away. The girl’s sobs echoing in her ears._

_But they never noticed the boy hidden in the wheat._

Sparrow jolted awake to find she was alone in Hammer’s rickety, old bed. Her heart hammered in her chest and she slowly laid back down on the scratchy mattress. She had dreamed of Rose and that always left her heart feeling leaden and wrong. Killing Lucian hadn’t changed that. There had been someone else in the dream too…. Sparrow frowned, an uncomfortable hum creeping into her bones.

                “Well, when the good lady _wakes up_ I may mention it to her. Depends on my mood. I am not her manservant you know.” Reaver’s voiced drifted into range. His tone dry and bored but Sparrow was starting to get better at detecting his real mood. The slight, low edge to his voice suggested that he was actually frustrated about something.

Sparrow sat up and took quick stock of her current situation, pushing the memory of the dream out of her mind as best she could for the moment. The hum disappeared.

The Guild Cave was as she remembered it. Dark, damp, and deserted. Some of the furniture that Theresa had moved into it still survived. It had been two years since Sparrow had been here. She would have liked to keep it that way. Old memories rose to the surface of her mind. The first time she had ever stepped out as a hero had been to clear this cave for Theresa. She had been so sure then, so trusting of the old Seer’s heart. Naïve is what she was. Naïve and stupid. Nothing was free. Not food or clothes or healing and certainly not Theresa’s help.

The globe still stood by Theresa’s old desk. Sparrow’s eyes warmed at the sight of the sturdy old thing. She and Hammer had traced over every inch of that globe and dreamed of traveling the world together after their quest was done. That had been before Reaver’s betrayal and before Sparrow had learned what Theresa really wanted.

                “Give her this, tell her that, ask the ‘Great Hero’ to bless my bloody cat. Shadows this is why I shoot people.” Sparrow shook off her reverie at the sound of Reaver’s voice. He was much closer now to the main cave. She glanced down at herself, realizing belatedly that she should probably make sure he hadn’t man handled her while she was asleep. Her clothes had been changed and her body washed. The smell of smoke was gone from her hair, which fell loose to her tail bone, and she wore a loose lavender colored linen dress with tiny flowers embroidered on the hem and the cuffs of the bell sleeves and around the collar. She doubted Reaver had cleaned her and changed her clothes. It was too kind of a gesture for the rogue, but she would question him about it. She stood, her knees wobbling for a moment, and braced herself for Reaver. Light knew it was likely to be a whirlwind of accusations and annoyances for the next hour until he petered out. Or she knocked him out. Whichever came first.

Reaver rounded the corner and entered the Guild Cave proper without noticing that Sparrow was awake. It had been three days since the Bowerstone Clock Tower blew up in their faces. Sparrow hadn't stirred once in that entire time. He had awoken to the leathery hands of an old traveler woman who was poking and prodding at him. At the time, he was certain she was trying to kill him when she forced him to drink from a white bottle. Instead, the sweet tasting potion had strengthened him enough that he had pulled Sparrow's limp body protectively into his arms and demanded the woman explain herself. Demand was all he could do. The potion had revived him, but he could only just keep himself upright. The woman knew Sparrow from her time growing up in the Bowerlake Traveler camp. She was the only one who came into the cave over the next few days and Reaver was pretty sure at this point that she had some ideas as to his relationship with Sparrow that were not at all aligned with reality. He didn’t correct the old healer when she gave him wholly unsolicited advice to, well, he actually wasn’t sure what the old bat was saying but whatever it was Sparrow would likely kill him for it. Try to. He was immortal after all.

Reaver’s grey eyes immediately wandered to the rickety bed as he approached the table in the center of the room. He set the bags of food that had been left for them at the mouth of the cave on the table and then stopped. Instead of laying prone and pale on what was likely the world’s worst mattress, Sparrow stood calmly before it. She still was a little paler then her usual self, but her legs seemed sturdy and her eyes alert.

                “So the hero awakens at last.” His mouth was dry. He let his eyes linger on her. It was almost a crime how well the color complimented her copper hair and bright green eyes. “Better late than never I suppose. You owe me five gold pieces by the way. That was the only dress I could find at that Traveler’s stall that did not make me want to die when I looked at it.” The pirate busied himself with sorting the food. Some wine (probably better suited for vinegar), several warm loves of seed bread, a small jar of honey, a white block of soft cheese (was that mold?), a bottle of white liquid that smelled, and some sort of cured meat.  

Sparrow scoffed and wandered over to the globe. He could see her hand trace the outline of Albion out of the corner of his eye.

                “I saved your life. Three times now, pirate. You owe me.”

Reaver turned to face her, his lips turning upwards into a seductive grin. Oh it was too easy. “And what price would you have me pay?”

Her response was a fireball aimed at his head.

He dodged it, “You can hardly blame me for that. It’s in my nature, Hero.”

She was at his side in a moment, the curving azure lines that signaled her use of will glowing brightly, he could even see them glowing beneath the lavender linen of her dress. “Yes, I wonder what isn’t in your nature, Reaver, as sometimes it seems that you are all that is rotten in the world and then….” She trailed off and leaned her hip against the table, facing him. “How long was I asleep?”

 _And then what?_ Reaver wondered where her words would have ended. And then he didn’t. “Oh asleep isn’t the word I would use. It implies a lifelike state where one is peacefully, willfully unconscious.” He tapped his chin. “No, I would say your condition for the past three days, that is 72 hours trapped in this musty hellhole,” he coughed as Sparrow continued to stare at him. He tried to mask the action as part of his theatrics. “Is better described as comatose or mostly dead.”

                “Three days?”

Reaver arched an eyebrow and nodded.

Sparrow pursed her lips, thinking. Her eyes were unreadable. “Any news from town? Where did you get this food?”

                “Your nomadic compatriots have been very,” he eyed the moldy cheese, “generous. An old crone has been the only one who would come in here though. L-something, flowery name. Must be older than your foster-mother.”

                “Lotus.” Sparrow warmed, “She’s the best healer in Albion.”

                “A few letters did come, left with the food, but I haven’t gotten to them yet.” He waved his hand at the pile of papers on the floor on the other side of the desk. “Things to do and such.”

Sparrow rolled her eyes and pushed off the table with her hip. “I can’t imagine that you’ve had much to do here.” She moved to the pile and began gathering it in her arms. She glanced at the address of one, _To the Lady Sparrow, Hero of Bowerstone, Hero of the Spire, Defender of Albion, and Champion of the Light._ Light above, was that her current catalog of titles? That was more than a mouthful.

                “I needed to rest. A face like mine is maintained by blowing up clock towers and saving heroes, you know. I must rest between acts of daring do.”

                “We’re even, Reaver.” Sparrow reminded him brusquely as she lifted a colorful flyer out of the stacks of letters now collected in her arm. _Murgo’s Marvelous Trading Post_ was inked across the top in bright red. Beneath it was a sketch of a yellow, red, and green wagon and a portly man with a large mustache and large top hat. She scanned the rest of the flyer, _Wonderful and rare Old Kingdom Artifacts that will change your life! All prices are negotiable and all sales are final._ Could it be the same Murgo that sold her and Rose the music box? Sparrow felt a tug in her gut like she was forgetting something. _Murgo_ , she repeated the name to herself. It was right there, something important that she was missing. _A dream…Rose was there…._

                “Sparrow?” Reaver’s voice broke through her thoughts.

                “Hmm?” She looked over at him, tucking the flyer into the dress’s hidden pocket for later. He looked annoyed which, she had learned, was his default expression. To her surprise, he still looked injured from their narrow escape from the clock tower. An angry red line peaked out from his hairline, just above his temple. A fresh scar, something that should have been impossible. His breathing had a wheeze to it that she could hear clearly now that she was standing closer to him and he stood slightly hunched as if his full height was too painful. Normal behavior for anyone who wasn’t Reaver. Odd. No, it was more than odd. Reaver had made a deal with the Shadow Court for immortality. Sparrow knew little of the Court but she knew what Reaver’s deal with them had done to him. Agelessness, no sickness, and while he could be harmed he healed flawlessly. He shouldn’t have that scar, he shouldn’t be wheezing, and he should be swaggering back and forth across the cave chittering away with ‘I told you so’ in regards to Alex. Something was wrong.

                “Did you ignore everything I said or is your vapid intellect showing again.” Reaver remarked dryly.

Sparrow ignored the jab, dropping her letters carefully onto the table, and returned to her previous position on Reaver’s side. She reached out to push a lock of the pirate’s dark hair out of the way of the scar. He stiffened, his eyes narrowing in on her, his expression guarded but he didn’t stop her. Another change in him. Once he had never let his foppish, serial killer persona drop away. As Sparrow examined first his forehead she noticed other imperfections. Cuts, bruises, all well along the healing process but still lingering on what should have been flawless ivory skin.

She pulled at his collar, curious as to the extent of a bruise that just peeked out from beneath the faded brown linen. Sparrow hadn’t noticed it before, but Reaver was clad in much the same fashion as her. Simple linen clothes donated from the Bowerlake travelers.  His shirt was open at the collar and finished with colorful embroidery of flowers. Somehow he had managed to get a pair of proper breeches and dark leather boots but they were obviously third hand at best. His breeches were a dark blue and patched at the knees. The boots were scuffed and she could see the fine lines were repairs had been carefully made. 

                “You’re hurt.”

He said nothing.

Sparrow released him and stretched herself to her full height. A few days ago they had stood almost shoulder to shoulder with Reaver holding only a few inches on her. Now she was the taller.

                “Why did you really return to Albion, Reaver?” She knew why. Sparrow could feel it in her bones. It had everything to do with the Shadow Court. Pestering her had been a moment’s distraction or the beginnings of another plot to trick her into paying his debt. Anger filled her, blinding her for a full heartbeat before she could stomp it back down. Why should she be mad? _I expected this from him? I’ve hardly been tricked._ Sparrow reminded herself.

Reaver looked away, silent and stone faced.

                “You _will_ tell me what is happening to you.” Sparrow folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Why you returned to Albion. Why you sought me out because I no longer believe that it was mere coincidence that I found you in the cemetery that day. And I think you are going to explain to me in excruciating detail who you saw on the balcony three nights ago when I saved you from bein’ pulverized by a clock.” 

Finally he looked at her and she could see the shadows that haunted his eyes and how thin his face seemed in comparison to her last memory. Had he even eaten while she had been unconscious? Reaver’s mask was falling away and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

                “That’s not a story I wish to tell.” His voice had a razor edge.

Sparrow poked him quickly in the side. Reaver flinched, a small grunt of pain slipping from his mouth.

                “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” She quipped, repeating the same saying Lotus had thrown at her as a child. “You are going to tell me, Reaver, because we are not leaving this cave until you have explained everything.”

 


	9. Visions in the Dark Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow explores new Will abilities, much to Reaver's displeasure. Some fellow named "Alan" gets the snot beat out of him by his own personal Shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, so this chapter is a bit of a beast. When I first posted it was roughly 8000 words because I literally couldn’t stop until I was passed Reaver’s origin story. My version of course. The Fable series is one that I will always love and that I’ve always held close even after all these years. There’s just enough mythos tying each title to the next to allow me to have fun and make all the theories I want. This time around I'm splitting it into parts to improve readability.

It was all of three seconds, Sparrow staring expectantly at Reaver and Reaver glaring back at her his mind whirling as to how to escape this situation. Three seconds and then he was bolting for the tunnel that lead to the cave entrance.

In a flash of blue light, Sparrow was in front of him. Her expression sour and her loose red-orange hair sweeping about her shoulders.

Reaver halted, glaring at the hero and coughed at the dust she had kicked up. 

"I'm faster than you are, Reaver." She stepped closer to him, her bare feet silent against the dusty stone. She spread her hands out to either side as if she were approaching some wounded, wild animal. Also effectively blocking him from dodging to either side of her to reach the entrance tunnel.

He seethed inside.

"Just tell me what's goin on. Maybe I can help you?"

Reaver spun away from her, blindly allowing his feet to carry him across the cave. _Help me?_ The implication that he needed help from her or from anyone infuriated him. Never had he enjoyed accepting aid from anyone. Who was she to look at him like that? With soft eyes like he was just another regular person who needed her help. Another of those begging, desperate, peasants demanding her time and blood because they were too weak to save themselves. His independence was a matter a pride and yet....

 He stopped and let himself crash onto the bed, throwing an arm over his face as a coughing fit briefly wracked his sore ribs. _I am acting like a child. Tell her a passable lie and then do what you must. Why continue with this?_ The question bounced around in his brain. Why indeed? Why was he allowing this woman, this _hero_ of all people to hold sway over him?

"Reaver?" her voice was soft, disconcerted and right by his ear. The illusion that she could actually care was one he was fully willing to accept.

 _Because,_ he reminded himself silently, _to pull this off you need her and you need her to trust you again. Completely._

Sparrow kneeled on the floor by the bed, her hands placed tentatively on the edge of the mattress, and waited. It was only a few minutes of silence, enough for Sparrow to invent several of her own theories about what was going on. Reaver’s time was up on his deal with the Court of Shadows and he needed to offer another sacrifice and he somehow intended it to be her, he needed a sacrifice but it wasn’t necessarily going to be her he was just passing time, she was thinking far too much of Reaver and he hadn’t planned shit and everything was a coincidence and she was being played so hard right now with this wounded soul act that was honestly kind of working….

                “My debt to the Court of Shadows is due.” Reaver admitted at last, the arm over his face never moving. Though it was with succinctly less drama and fuss than Sparrow had anticipated, after what had approximately been ten minutes, Reaver had cracked.

Sparrow pulled herself from her absolutely necessary and silent mental victory dance, and focused on the gentle rasp of Reaver's voice. He had uncovered his face during her distraction and was now sketching something in the air above him with his hands. A little color had returned to his cheeks and his grey eyes seemed to come alive as he spoke.

"I cannot complete the lovely, little ritual without the seal. You were the last to have it, you never did return it to me after that little errand I sent you on-"

"By 'little errand' you mean when you tricked me into delivering the seal to the Court of Shadows and I nearly _died,_ right?" Sparrow pushed away from the bed, sitting back on her heels.

"Oh poppycock, you wouldn't have died." Reaver shook his head, "The Seal takes away youth. You would have been weakened, yes, but truly I think gray hair would have gone with your Hero image far better that that burnt orange color you have." Reaver leaned up on his elbow, making a small show of finger combing his own disheveled brown locks before turning to face Sparrow. "Speaking of, how did you escape that trap?"

Sparrow rolled her eyes and tossed some of her, in her opinion, perfectly hero worthy hair back over her shoulder. "You admit it was a trap than."

Now Reaver rolled his eyes, "Of course it was a trap. You are a Hero, dearie. You ooze youth and power I couldn't have resisted sending you even if Lucien hadn't placed a massive bounty on your head. Which he had and I had every intention of collecting it. Until you looked at me with those jewels you call eyes and I was," he puffed out his chest, "a changed man."

"Translation," Sparrow held her hand up as if she were reading a large carnival banner. "Until you realized that Lucien wouldn't pay and that he, like the rest of the world, wanted your head on a spike." That had been a betrayal that Sparrow had expected, to a degree. She had believed back then that after Reaver had learned that Lucien didn't care to honor any deal and wanted all heroes dead that he would be worthy of some trust.  But Reaver had never considered himself a hero, despite his obvious Skill and had betrayed them to Lucien anyway. Sparrow took a deep, calming breath.

"Well it's far less romantic when you put it that way." Reaver let his posture fall into a slouch. He coughed, several deep chesty coughs before replying in a hoarse voice.  "So, hero, since we are swapping tales and I have answered all your little questions. How _did_ you escape the Court of Shadows?"

"Um," Sparrow held up her hand, "What is happening to you? Why did you seek me out? And the excruciating details of your hallucinations." She arched a pale eyebrow in faux shock. "Outstanding! You answered not a single one of my questions."

Reaver reached out a hand towards hers. "Sacrifice another's youth so that I can keep mine." He folded her thumb in towards her palm. "You had the Seal last. And ghosts of those I sacrificed for this face, completely worth it I think. Art must be preserved for future generations, you know.” He gently folded in a finger for each question until only Sparrow’s pinky was left. He pinched it between his index finger and his thumb. “How did you escape?”

                “You’re feeling better.” Sparrow remarked dryly. She wiggled her pinky out of the pirate’s grasp. “I wanted a bit more detail than that.”

                “I suppose I could provide a few more details, I was saving them for my autobiography, but surely you can humor me first?” he wiggled her finger. “Please?”

Sparrow grimaced, Theresa knew the most about what had happened inside the Court of Shadows but only because Sparrow had no way of blocking what the old Seer saw. She was not proud of what had happened when she had returned the Seal to the Court. It was among the darker things she had done. It was her turn now to avoid Reaver’s imploring gaze, she at least had the sense to feel shame for what she had done.

                “Not a tale you want to tell?” Reaver mocked, the hoarseness of his voice providing extra bite for the irony of the moment. “If I recall correctly you didn’t want to talk about it than either.”

                “The Seal was returned. What does it matter if I wasn’t as weak after as you expected?” Sparrow forced herself to make eye contact with the pirate. She pushed the guilt from her mind, hoping it hadn’t shown on her face. _If I hadn’t left the seal with that village girl, I would have been too weak to fight Lucien when he had come for me in Bloodstone._ Sparrow reminded herself.

His smug grin slipped, “It does matter Sparrow. It matters more than you could possibly know.”

Sparrow pulled her hand away. "What are you playing at, Reaver?"

"A very long game, Sparrow, one that started long before you were born." the pirate sat up fully now, fighting another short spasm of coughs. He looked frustrated as if something wasn't playing out as he had hoped.

Sparrow weighed her options. She had to find out Reaver's plans and what was going on with him. It wasn't simple curiosity anymore, it was about the safety of the people. She had let him go two years ago, his crimes unanswered, numbed by everything she had lost. Sparrow wasn't going to let him go again. He was probably going to demand the details of her encounter with the Court of Shadows in return. Insist that it was important in some way. She growled in frustration everything was a hassle with him. Each nugget of information or moment of peace gained had a price.

"Can ye just speak plain? Answer my questions, with all the details this time, and then we'll see about yours." Sparrow held up her hand, an offer of truce. "That is my final offer, Reaver, deal?"

He stared at her hand for a spell.

"Reaver." She growled in warning and suddenly regretting her threat about neither of them leaving the cave until he had told her everything. It was an impulsive move. _Idiot, fool, he’s not going to tell you anything more than what he already has. And what he has told you is exactly what you could have guessed after thinking about the entire situation with your brain rather than your…_. Sparrow ended her mental tirade abruptly.

Reaver was still hesitantly looking at her hand. "Were you not going to spit in it? I thought you were going to spit in your hand. It felt like that type of moment." mischief twinkled in his grey eyes.

Sparrow rolled her eyes and made to pull back her hand but Reaver caught it. Their eyes met and she could see that the humor had left them her stomach did not flutter. Her cheeks remained their usual color and if they looked a little red it was simply left over burn from the explosion. _No, he is wild card, not an ally._

                “So, my tale for yours?” he pulled her hand closer to his face where he began to inspect her palm.

                “I swear,” Sparrow tried to pull her hand from his but Reaver’s grip was surprisingly strong. “Reaver you treat everyone like back alley trader in Old Town, _before_ the guards cleaned it the place up.” Sparrow huffed and pushed at his hand with her free one. “Oh come on. Let me go!” She glanced up at him expecting to find the pirate staring smugly down at her but instead his eyes were fixed on something behind her. Several curls of dark brown hair had fallen forward onto his forehead, but Reaver made no move to adjust them back into place. His face was slack and his lips moved silently forming words but giving them no sound. His eyes, Sparrow found her gaze falling back to his eyes. Dark and grey, flecked with spots of light, Reaver’s eyes were fearful but unfocused and she knew the vision had come to him again.

                “Let me see.” She whispered, and slowly the Hero of the Spire twisted around to look behind her.

There, in the middle of the Guild Cave, stood a woman with perfect golden curls, unblemished cream colored skin, and tearful blue eyes. Her dress was of an older style, shorter and consisting of fewer layers of skirts. It was fair frock, something the she might have worn to a Mayfair or village celebration. The dress was rose and white with a blue sash, each shade complementing her complexion perfectly. She was beautiful and surreal in the dark of the cave. The specter didn’t seem to notice or care that Sparrow could see her.

                “Alan!” her voice was high and clear and full of worry. She ran forward, stepping through Sparrow to cup Reaver’s face in her hands. “Alan what happened to you? You were gone all night.”

Sparrow gasped and shuddered as a chill crawled down her spine. Her arm felt as cold as ice from where the ghostly young woman had passed through. The change was sudden and disorienting as the Guild Cave melted away and the lush, green forest and packed dirt road outside Oakvale took its place. Sparrow’s hands were no longer held captive and she sat in the middle of the road at the feet of a young man. A young man with dark brown hair that curled wildly over his ears and vulnerable grey eyes. His clothes were stained brown and black with mud and dust along with several swipes of green. He looked like he had spent a very eventful night in the woods. Sparrow sprang to her feet and quickly stepped away.

                “Nothing, I’m fine I just-” the young man, Alan, gently pushed her hands away, a small shudder running through him. “I fell and now I’m back so you needn’t worry.”

The young woman allowed him his space but she seemed wholly unconvinced by his explanation. “Alan…”

                “Margret.” Alan rolled his shoulders and tried to hide his wince at the movement. He looked like he was barely managing to hold it together. “Can we please talk about this after, I don’t know, I have eaten? Or showered? I don’t even want to imagine what I must smell like.” He offered her a tired but genuine smile.

                “Alan,” she took a big breath and her words came out as she exhaled. “You have been missing for three days. I was at my dress fitting when Will Forde came busting in saying that you had been spotted on the road outside of town. I ran here as fast as I could. I know your shortcuts, Alan, and I have been so worried.” She pulled at a loose string of embroidery on the edge of her bodice nervously, blue eyes studying Alan as he took in the news of his disappearance. “I tried to do as you asked. I did.”

                “Three days?” Alan suddenly looked weak. His breath caught in his throat and he shook his head violently. “Three days? Three days?!” He was on the verge of hyperventilating and reached out for support.

Margret caught him before he collapsed, straining to hold him up but making no complaints. "How hard did you hit your head? I told your mother this morning and your dad went out with a search party an hour later. They should be back soon. I'm sorry, Alan, I know you wanted to keep it a secret."

Alan clung to her, visibly trying to regain control of himself but making little progress.

"Where are your things?”

                “I don’t know.” The young man mumbled, his head lolling forward.

                “It’s okay now. I’ve got you now, Alan, you’re safe.” Margret adjusted her grip on the young man, her blue eyes filled with tenderness and concern.

                “Not safe….”

Margret started slowly down the road, half carrying half dragging Alan with her, but she didn’t make any indication that she had heard her companion’s last whispered words. Sparrow had and she had only seconds to ponder what Alan's secret was before the world shifted.

The world melted away again and this time Sparrow found herself standing in the corner of a modestly sized bedroom. She could make out a writing desk and chair in the opposite corner from her in the warm glow of the candle light. In the center of the room was a bed with a sturdy oak bedside table next to it. Alan sat on the bed, his shoulders hunched over and he was curled around the metal candle stand. He was pressed as much as he could be against the simple headrest of his bed. His grey eyes were wide and frantic as he scanned the room. Left, right, left right, his eyes flicked back and forth wildly. He looked like he hadn’t slept and wasn’t planning on doing so anytime soon.

                “Stay back!” his gaze fixed on Sparrow. “I know what you are but you won’t have me!” his voice shook, undermining the strength of his words.

Sparrow’s heart filled with sorrow for the stranger. She didn’t know why she was seeing this, who this young man was to Reaver, but it didn’t matter to her now. This was someone who needed help, who was half-crazed with fear. She stepped forward, her hands raised in a familiar gesture of peace.

                “Please, I’m not here to hurt you.”

He clutched even tighter to the candle, the metal biting into his fingers until crimson drops fell onto his blankets. “You won’t have me.” His voice came out in a tremulous sob.

                “Honest, I just want to help you.” Sparrow stayed where she was, worried that any other movement might trigger more panic. _Is he a victim of Reaver’s?_ Sparrow couldn’t help but wonder if that was true. Something twitched in the shadows by the desk distracting Sparrow. She turned to look and felt cold dread pool in her stomach. A shadow figure, its shape only vaguely human, stood in the corner with two gaping holes for eyes trained on Alan. The head towered above its body on a thin neck and its arms ended in long curved blades that scraped across the wood floor and as it glided forward. 

                “Please, leave me be please.” Alan was pleading, still staring at Sparrow unaware of the shadow closing in on him.

                “Alan turn around!” Sparrow yelled at him trying to move, trying to summon her will into flames in her palms, but nothing happened. Her legs were trapped in dark, swirling shadow and her will lines didn’t even flicker. “Alan run!” She struggled against the shadow and yelled herself hoarse trying to warn him.

The shadow raised an arm, darkness creeping up the bedposts and over the blankets until the whole room was pitch black save for the weak glow of Alan’s candle. Alan sat up, straightening as he sensed the shift of danger from Sparrow to something behind him, but it was too late.

The shadow brought its arm down in a vicious arc, curving the tip of its blade hand straight through Alan’s heart. He tensed, his mouth opening in a silent, anguished cry as the shadow pushed deeper into his chest.

“We have waited centuries for you.” The Shadow whispered, a discordant collection of other voices. Voices that filled the room with countless whispers. The candle sizzled out and the room filled with heartless laughter.


	10. Visions in the Dark Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow learns that visions aren't always linear and everyone has a sob story. Balverines mug a misfit teen in the woods. An ancient evil is released.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the second part of Reaver's origin story. To those worrying "he's too nice" and "he's so straight" this is only a glimpse into one tiny span of his life before becoming Reaver. I headcanon that he explored his pansexuality prior to this and it is an element of his character I'm determined to keep (and try not to vilify because it certainly is in the game). Unfortunately, I just didn't focus on that in this and I do regret that.

Sparrow blinked rapidly, trying to adjust her eyes to the total darkness but when she opened them it was to bright sunlight and a peaceful ocean. She studied the area, taking a hesitant step forward onto the sand. The beach was small, the dirt mixing with and then eventually giving way to a spit of sandy beach. A small dock jutted out into the crystal blue ocean and group of rocks rose to her right, blocking the rest of the beach from view. The Inn was close but far enough away that the tavern crowd didn't disturb the natural peace of the beach.

"Alan!" Sparrow's voice didn't even echo as she yelled the villager's name. Had he been killed by the Shadow? _He was one of Reaver's victims._ She didn't see Alan anywhere, but it didn't make sense for him to have been a pawn in Reaver's game of immortality. She knew firsthand how the ritual went and the results were old age, not death. Sparrow shook her head in disbelief. Something else was happening in this vision, it was Reaver's so there was a chance that she couldn't trust anything she saw but.... _Reaver can't control his visions._ Sparrow thought of his dazed expression on the balcony four nights ago in Bowerstone, how he had blindly pulled a gun on her. Had he been under the spell of his ghosts then? _So this is, this could all be true...but where does he fit in with all of this? Unless?_

Sparrow spied the blond, Margret, standing on the dock staring out at sea. Her hair was caught in a cross breeze and it fluttered around her in golden waves, it was a very romantic sight, almost ripped straight out of a novel. Her posture was wistful, as if at any moment she would reach out her hand and whoever she was waiting for would appear and take it in theirs.

Sparrow thought it must be because of Alan, the young man she had just watch die. It was clear from the brief scenes Sparrow had seen that Margret loved him. Sparrow heard footsteps behind her and she turned, curious, to see what new character would enter only it was Alan. He looked older now even though Sparrow knew instinctively that it had only been a handful of days since the Shadow had attacked him in his room. His eyes were familiar to her now, more dark than light, and his hair was tied back from his face. He was dressed in work clothes, loose pants and loose shirt with the sleeves rolled up well away from his wrists. He wore a heavy, leather blacksmith's apron over everything and beads of sweat clung to his skin.

Alan slowed his pace, eventually coming to a halt on the Inn porch. There was a darkness around his eyes, a weight on his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, Sparrow could sense the freshness of it. He carried something dark with him now.  

“Reaver.” His name slipped out in a saddened whisper. She was learning how he became Reaver but she already knew the end of this tale. Theresa had told her long ago. Reaver betrayed his home to the Shadows. Letting the darkness kill every man, woman, and child just so he could have eternal life. She turned away from him, following the not-yet-Reaver’s gaze back to the woman on the dock.

As if sensing his gaze, the woman half turned towards land. She waved at him and gave the horizon one last wishful look before making her way over to Alan.

Sparrow watched, silent, understanding now that her role was to observe. Still, it was weird to know that Alan, who had seemed so vulnerable, was the same man as Reaver. The village was still alive which meant he hadn’t made his choice yet. Sparrow watched the two converse on the Inn porch. Margret talking animatedly about something, gesturing once or twice back to the sea, while Reaver, or Alan, listened with a guarded expression. It was possible that Sparrow should have been paying more attention to what the two were saying (or in fact what the one was saying, Reaver/Alan had said nothing so far), but her mind was distracted by the chilling words the Shadow had whispered to Alan (or Reaver? This was getting confusing!) in the dark.

                _We have waited centuries for you._

“It was planned?” her brow furrowed in concentration as she struggled to get the pieces to line up. Sparrow wandered over to a large boulder and leaned against it. “What do I know? Alan, he went to the woods for some reason and disappeared for three days. He also didn’t want anyone to know about it.” Margret had said as much in the first vision. “He had thought it had only been one night _and_ he wouldn’t tell her what happened but it upset him. It terrified him, he wasn’t just shaken by the loss of time. He had barely escaped something.” Sparrow tapped her lip, there were too many holes still in the story. Sure, she could use what she knew from Theresa and just completely criminalize the pirate like she always had, but something about doing that felt wrong now. It wasn’t like Reaver was a _good_ person now, but perhaps he hadn’t always been as bad? Sparrow hissed and both her hands through her hair in frustration. She let her fingers lace behind her neck and rest there as she tried to think. This was what she had been trying to avoid. The possibility that Reaver might be more complicated than the ‘eat, screw, shoot, look pretty’ persona he threw around. Now here it was, all around her, unfolding before her very eyes.

The hero looked back to the couple and suddenly, as if this vision world sensed her renewed attention, her boulder slid smoothly over to the Inn.

Alan, because he wasn’t really Reaver yet, was shaking his head and avoiding Margret’s imploring sapphire gaze.

                “Please, just tell me what happened! I will not tell your dad, I swear on my Gran’s grave, just please talk to me!”

                “I,” Alan released a heavy sigh, his gaze slipping back over to Margret. For a moment, the coldness abated and his eyes filled with longing. He took her hand, the movement familiar and comforting and Sparrow held her breath as it seemed that he might actually speak. Then his eyes flicked left, to the shadows by the covered woodshed behind the Inn and his mouth clamped tight, he turned cold and he dropped Margret’s hand. “I went hunting. I fell and I lost track of time. What more is there to say about it?” he snapped

                “Liar.” Margret hissed vehemently.

                “Oh, now I am the liar?” he scoffed as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He pointed out towards the ocean. “You think I do not know what your brother is? I know he was the one to get the guns for the Anti-Hero League. The whole town praised him as the model of an upstanding citizen.” Alan pulled at the collar of his shirt in obvious mockery of what the village thought an upstanding citizen.

                “Stop it Alan.”

                “Where did he get the money for all those new guns? For your pretty dresses and your nice house?” He glared at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s a pirate, Margret. One of Captain Dread’s little seadogs and while you sit here reaping the benefits your brother,” Alan advanced on Margret, pointing viciously out to see again. “Is raping, and pillaging, and reaving to his heart’s content.”

Margret sucked in a shaky breath, physically willing the tears welling in her eyes to not fall. Sparrow could see that there was a hint of truth to Alan’s words from the girl’s reaction. Margret’s cheeks were flushed.

                “I don’t believe you.”

Alan huffed, rolling his eyes, “Of course you don’t. I am a liar after all.” and he left her, striding quickly away until he was lost in the exiting crowd from the Inn.

Hurrying to keep up with him, Sparrow left her boulder and jogged after him. She didn’t have to dodge and weave through the crowd but instead passed through them until she saw him disappearing behind the blacksmith’s shop. She followed, expecting him to head into the forge as he was obviously dressed for work. Instead, Reaver slipped between the half open doors of a small storage shed. Sparrow followed.

Inside it was cramped and dark and the same blade-handed shadow figure was waiting.

Alan shuddered but didn’t turn away. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice hard.

                “We want what you want. You summoned us.”

He shook his head, his hands tight fists by his sides. “No. I don’t know what I did or what I am, but you I never _summoned_.”

Sparrow frowned, what he did?

                “You freed us. Your heart is full of shadows. It calls to us.”

He was silent and Sparrow tried to maneuver around so that she could see his face but again she found her feet stuck the oozing shadow that covered the shed's floor.

The Shadow glided forward, hooking one curved blade behind Alan's neck forcing him to step forward until he was standing chest to chest with it.

"You will die. All that you are will die. It does not have to be this way."

Alan shoved way the Shadow's arm and stepped away from it, slashing at the air in front of him. "I won't help you."

The Shadow sank down into the floor, its horrid voice laughing as it disappeared. "You belong to us. You are tainted. Everything you touch is tainted. Everything you love is tainted. You have already helped us. You will give us the world before you are free."

The Shadow was gone and Alan's shoulders dropped. He brought his hands to his face and Sparrow knew, from the shaking outline of his shoulders, that he was crying.

***

Alan and the shed melted away and a forest rose up in its place. The trees soared over her head and then twisted around each other until only small beams of light penetrated through the dark canopy. The trees were old and gnarled with rough bark. Sparrow’s face fell, this was the Darkwood. A branch snapped up ahead, beyond her sight, and Sparrow tensed as she fell reflexively into a fighting stance.

Gradually, a figure came into view, tall, lean and dressed in a cleaner version of what Sparrow had first seen him in. Alan picked his way around the old trees and roots with ease. He held a bow in one hand and had a quiver of arrows secured to his hip. The darkness that had clung to him on the Inn porch was gone and he looked young and peaceful in the forest. He paused, bending down to check something in the dirt before reaching out to touch a broken branch from a small shrub. He looked up again, now able to spot the trail he was following several paces ahead, and a cocky grin broke out across his face.

                “Gotcha.” Alan straightened and continued on, his path taking right past Sparrow.

                “So you were always a cocky fool? Nice to know somethings never change.” Sparrow called after him before sighing and following. _Hunting in Darkwood, sounds exactly like something you would do Reaver. And, exactly like something you would want to keep from your parents._

It was maybe an hour of winding between and under and over and around the twisted trees of Darkwood before Alan stopped. He knelt behind a fallen, moss covered pillar, watching his prey. A good sized doe with dappled markings drank from the slow stream below them.

Sparrow kneeled beside him, not that he noticed, and placed a balancing hand on the pillar. A shock ran through her and she quickly pulled back. The hero looked to Alan, he hadn’t felt or noticed the disturbance, instead he was nocking an arrow and slowly rising up to aim.

Sparrow touched her index finger against the fallen pillar. Another bolt of raw will shot up her arm and she reached for Alan suddenly understanding what was about to happen. _This must be the day he disappeared in the woods._  

They were crouched behind an Old Kingdom ruin, or what the Darkwood had left of it. The Old Kingdom existed long before Reaver’s time, Reaver had spoken often of the Heroes Guild and its fall, but its ruins still dotted Albion’s landscape and beyond. During the time of the Old Kingdom, the Archon infused nearly every structure with his will. Cities were raised in a matter of days but when he abandoned the Kingdom, chaos reigned and the cities burned. What remained still reacted to the touch of those with Hero’s blood, those possessed of extraordinary skill, strength, or will. Alan was about to find out.

Her hand passed through the young hunter like he was air. Sparrow had only touched the Old Kingdom ruin briefly and both times had sent a numbing shock of power racing through her arm. If Alan fell against it then that may be the “fall” he told Margret about.

Leaves fell from the canopy, drifting slowly through the air and brushing Alan’s cheek as they dropped to the forest floor. Alan froze, his eyes widened ever so slightly as he tried to take in more of the forest around him without making any movement.

More leaves rustled as they fell from above.

Alan sucked in a breath and then he launched into motion. He swung his bow up, releasing his arrow into the dark canopy and nocking another in fluid motion. He waited.

A howl ripped through the air.

                “Balverines.” Sparrow growled and jumped in front of Alan even as her mind reminded her that she couldn’t do anything to stop what was happening.

A balverine fell from the trees. It crashed into the forest floor and stayed there. Alan’s arrow protruded from its chest and black blood oozed from the fatal wound.

                “They always hunt in packs!” Sparrow warned Alan as he passed through her towards the fallen balverine.

He kept his bow taunt but aimed at the fallen balverine.

                “Look up you idiot! Light above!” Sparrow squeezed her hands into white knuckled fists and pressed them against her face.

Another leaf fell from the canopy, but Alan didn’t notice he was too focused on his first kill. He was grinning, adrenaline probably surging through him in the face of his near death.

                “Look up!” Sparrow screamed and at last, it seemed like she had gotten through whatever veil separated her because Alan did stop celebrating and at last look up. Of course, it was too late.

Two more balverines dropped from the trees: one in front of him and another behind. They were both bigger, older than the one he had just killed.

The one in front snarled at him, a low vicious sound, and bared its fangs. It lunged at him swiping with its right claw, trying to drive him back towards its waiting and silent partner.

But he didn’t step back, he leaped forward and to the left landing hard on his right shoulder as he rolled up to his knees facing the balverine’s open flank. Alan managed to get off three arrows, killing it, before the second balverine charged at him. He turned but the balverine was faster. The wolf-like creature charged into him, sending him flying backwards through the undergrowth. Straight into the fallen pillar.

His back slammed into the stone and his breath raced out of him in a great whoosh. It was exactly as Sparrow feared. He cried out as a powerful shock of will tore through him. Alan slid to the ground, his body contorted with pain and his back arching as the will continued to burn through him.

The remaining balverine stalked forward, growling and snapping its teeth.

Alan struggled against the pain, Sparrow could see his eyes flutter as he tried to get them open. The balverine was almost on top of him know, oblivious of the pain its victim was in. Or the power that was burning through his veins.

                “Come on.” Sparrow urged him.

Alan struggled to straighten his arm until his palm pointed towards the approaching balverine. With a scream he released the will that surged through him. It manifested in a bolt of lightning, arcing perfectly from his palm to the balverine, frying it within seconds. Alan’s will was wild and unfocused and it didn’t stop when the balverine collapsed, just a pile of smoking bones. It hit everything around him, branching out to strike multiple targets until the power ebbed and his arm fell limply to the ground.

He quieted, though his breathing was still hard, and stared up at the forested sky through half-lidded eyes.

Sparrow tip toed closer to him. She stood over him, looking down at the face of the man she thought she had known so well.  He was pale and covered in mud and sweat. Would he lie here forgotten for three days?

Night fell and still Alan hadn’t moved though his eyes had slipped shut hours ago.

Sparrow sat by his head, silently guarding against whatever was to come. It was hilarious really, how protective she felt of this version of Reaver. He was so different than her Reaver. _Well_ , she thought about that cocky grin he had flashed when he had found the deer's trail, his skill with the bow, and his refusal to confide in Margret or to ask for help. Also the cruel things he had said to her, ironic though it was that he despised pirates. _Maybe not so different._

Thunder rumbled in the distance and heat lightning flashed through the gaps in the trees. The humidity from the coming storm should have been oppressive beneath the canopy, where the massive tree trunks blocked all possibility of a breeze, but it wasn't. It was cold.

Alan started to stir, his breath forming little clouds above his lips. Shadows seeped out of the Old Kingdom pillar like water. Slithering, sickening whispers filled the air. Sparrow felt them like thousands of cold pinpricks on her skin.

_Do you really think everything in existence revolves around you? You are alone. No one will come looking for you, they have already forgotten you. You will die here in the woods. Your death will be meaningless and you will be nothing. Your love was never enough to keep her. Not even your family's gold was enough for her. She wants the world and you are nothing. Die here. Find peace in the Void. Join us._

Again Sparrow was rooted in place, helpless but to watch the scene unfold.

Shadows snaked up Alan's fingers and up his arm, sliding across his pale skin until the inky black covered every inch of his body except for his eyes. His eyes snapped open, rolling wildly as he tried to move, tried to break free of the darkness drowning him.

_Close your eyes. You cannot escape the inevitable._

"NO!" His voice was muffled but clear enough for the shadows to press in tighter.

_You will wither. You will be ravaged by time. Let us bring you peace._

"I don't want to die. Please I don't want to die!" His eyes were unfocused and starting to roll back into his head despite his protests.

_What could you give us? Your death is a mercy. We spare the world to come of your weakness._

A soft yellow glow started to emanate from his hand. The shadows there boiled and the whispers screamed in pain. The glow grew stronger and soon his hand was free. He pulled at the darkness covering his face and with every touch it boiled and shrank. Soon it was retreating back to the pillar and Alan was standing, slowly and shakily, but standing.  His bow and quiver were gone, hidden beneath the thick undergrowth and the yellow glow was starting to dissipate. The shadows started to return.

"Let me go!" he held his hand out warding of the shadows which collided and combined with each other until they towered over him. The head curved toward him, the long neck bending unnaturally. It was the same shadow that would appear in his bedroom and that he would talk with in the supply shed.

"Why? You are the first meal worthy of us in centuries." the whispers harmonized into the Shadow's chilling voice.

"I don't want to die! Traders walk through these woods every month! There are balverines and deer and hobbes! Eat them!"

"You want to," The Shadow quirked its head to the side. "Live?" It sounded genuinely curious as if none of its prey had ever expressed such a wish before.

Alan barked out a nervous laugh, edging back one step. "Yes! I want to live. Preferably for a long, long time."

Dread filled Sparrow's stomach. "Don't talk with it, Reaver, use your magic hand!" Sparrow urged him. It was useless of course, like everything she did here. It did make her feel the tiniest bit better. It was clear that he didn't know about his powers as the Hero of Skill yet. He wouldn't for years but she did and it killed her. His contact with the Old Kingdom ruin must have activated them, giving them a sort of super charge. Being the Hero of Skill was more than just having perfect aim and reflexes

The Shadow leaned closer, emanating an almost excited air. "You would give us something for it. For life?"

"...yes?" The light from his hand flickered and then came back, bright and warm. Alan quickly held his hand up higher before the Shadow could advance. "Yes, what do you want? I-" he glanced around, "I'm mean you already have so much. Maybe a nice sconce? Brighten the place up a bit?"

The Shadow hissed, "NO!"

"Right, okay." He tried hard to keep his voice steady. His mind probably racing to anticipate what the Shadow wanted. "Than what can I give you to keep you from eating me?"

The Shadow rushed him, its empty face suddenly only a hairsbreadth away from his. "Your world!" it howled in a fracture of voices.

The light in Alan's hand went out; all was plunged into darkness.

***

Dim morning light filtered in past the leaves and Sparrow crumpled on the ground. His fingers twitched, once, twice, and then he gasped and sat up. He started when he saw the three balverine corpses, each in varying states of death.

"They were good shots." Sparrow said hollowly. It was a loose deal that he had just made, probably only real in the mind of the Shadow, but that was all that mattered. He had just destroyed Oakvale with a fear driven promise.

Alan stood, blinking slowly and then Sparrow knew that he remembered because he took several steps back, nearly tripping over his own feet. His hair stuck up in all directions and his eyes were tired with dark shadows beneath them. Without a word, he turned away from the pillar and the dead balverines. He didn't even search the ground for his bow or his quiver, he just started running back the way he had come.

Sparrow could feel the scene starting to switch again, the trees of Darkwood bleeding into the houses of Oakvale and she closed her eyes.

"I don't want to see this!" She muttered softly, covering her ears as screams tore through the night. "I know how it ends. I don't need to see this." Sparrow closed her eyes and hunched in on herself curling forward and down until she sat on her heels. She could feel the heat of the fires and the disturbance in the air around her as villagers swarmed past or didn't. Screams rent the night and underneath it all were the whispers and the laughter of the Shadow.

_"_ How could you do this? _"_ Margret's voice filled Sparrow's ears, forcing her to open her eyes and see. Poor Margret was cradling the body of a sailor, his blood soaking the front of her dress.

Alan stood in front of her. "I didn't know this would happen! I didn't know what it was! Please, you have to believe me!"

She sobbed, pressing her forehead against the dead man's. His hair was the same golden shade as hers; however, in death it had lost its luster.

"You wanted this!"

"I did not want _this_!" Alan approached her, dropping to his knees in front of her. He reached for her but she pulled back. His hand fell back to his side. "We have to leave, now, before the shadows come back and kill us."

Margret was beyond hearing him. She rocked, her tears streaking her face and making trails in the drying blood on her brother's face. "No." she moaned. "I am not going anywhere with you!"

"Margret, your brother is dead." Alan's voice was desperate, pleading. "We have to run or we will join him."

"Not ‘we,’ Alan." She met his gaze fiercely, her blue gaze burning with rage and sorrow. “I saw how those things passed by you. You tried to hide it but you knew that they were not here for you. They are here for us and you helped them! You helped those monsters!” her rage drove her to her feet, her brother’s corpse slipping off her lap. Margret stepped over him advancing on a distraught Alan.

He followed her to his feet and pulled away from her as she drove her palm into his chest and pushed.

                “How could I have planned this? Why would I chose those creatures over my home?”

                “Do not lie to me anymore!” She was screaming now, she pushed at him again and Alan let her. “Those days in Darkwood, you were different after and I thought maybe it would curb you. I thought you had learned not to be so arrogant or so fool hardy and that’s why you were so silent but it wasn’t! You pushed me away, pushed your family away and for what?"

He was silent but it was clear that her words hurt him.

She shoved him again with all her might, "Speak! By Avo's light speak to me!"

He stumbled back but he spoke, his tone defeated and his shoulders sagging. Sparrow had always imagined Reaver unaffected by the cost of his immortality. He wasn't celebrating it now or even apathetic to Margret's words. He radiated guilt and regret. Somehow that made it worse.

"The shadows were going to kill me. If I had known this was the price...." his voice died.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you would have chosen differently."

He met her gaze for a moment but then he faltered his grey eyes falling to the ground where one of Oakvale's many citizens lie slaughtered. The villager’s face was contorted into an expression of horror and his mouth opened for a scream that never left his throat.

He hesitated and that was all Margret needed.

"Monster." Margret cried backing away from him, sinking to the bloody ground by her brother's body. "Were you always this way? I should have known, I should have told the others where you had been, I should have told them what you were when my brother told me about the shooting range. You never missed and you'd never held a crossbow in your life." She rocked back and forth, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. "I knew you had hero blood then, but what did it matter? I loved you. Oh brother forgive me! How could I ever have loved _you_?"

Alan watched her, his expression darkening, anger rising to replace the hurt and sorrow.

Images flashed before Sparrow's eyes, layered over the image of Margret's slowly rocking body and the hardening of Alan's face. They were his memories, what he remembered at this moment as the one person left who knew him rejected him.

_Villagers whispering as he walked by. A face, his father's, older and burnt by years tending the forge showing concern and not pride when his son's first attempt at smithing yields only perfect results. The shooting range, Margret's brother hurriedly dragging him out before the crowd can turn on him. Men armed with guns and marching towards Bowerstone. They wear red arm bands with A. H. embroidered on them in black. His Mother, with the same mischievous grey eyes as him, showing him how to flip a knife over his knuckles. His Father interrupting, angrily pointing outside and then at him._

The memories stopped and Sparrow blinked, dizzy from the quick barrage of images. A. H.? The initials seemed to resonate with her, a detail she should remember from her childhood listening to Cloud's stories about the Time of Heroes. The Anti-Hero League, Alan had mentioned them before, they were the ones responsible for the 2nd burning of the Hero’s Guild. She watched Alan's face, his lips twisting into cruel, angry smirk. He straightened, his shoulders lifting and his head lifting so that he looked down his nose at the sobbing young woman. The mask descended, not yet perfected but unmistakable. Reaver was born.

"Stay here and die then.” He spun away from her, walking stiffly away and never looking back. Not even when the shadows creeped forward and the whispers grew deafening and not when Margret’s final throat tearing scream rent the night.

Sparrow’s eyes fluttered open. Her limbs were stiff with cold from lying on the stone floor of the cave. She didn’t remember falling onto her side but it must have happened after Reaver’s memories had seized her. She glanced at the rickety bed, emerald eyes searching for the man whose past she had just learned.

He was still slumped on the bed, his position mirroring hers. His cheeks were wet, one arm slung loosely over the side of the bed still holding hers.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, Sparrow let her eyes fall closed, the vision having taken more strength than she realized, and let herself drift off to sleep. If she dreamed, she did not remember.


	11. We're going on a bear hunt, we're gonna catch a big one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow gets that new quest glow. Reaver accepts help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lotus ships them big time.

Theresa paced the top floor of the Spire, seething. Blue will energy crackled in the air around her like summer lightning but there was no one to be impressed or intimidated by her display of power. No one to calm the storm or soothe her fears. She lashed out, upending the small, oak table that stood in the center of the room. Theresa cried out, her voice filled with the frustration wrought from centuries of plans quietly, naturally going tits up.

Her crystal ball crashed to the ground, the silver stand that once supported it falling with a great clunk that echoed loudly in the lonely chamber. The orb, once filled with a milky cloud, was now clear as it rolled across the obsidian floor.

“You fool!” she screamed, tossing her crimson hood from her face. Blind eyes, scarred pupils seeing the world beyond the Spire as if it were a play unfolding before her. Sparrow had been slipping from her grasp since the events at the Spire two years ago, it was obvious now. First the girl had tried to disappear but no one escaped Theresa’s sight for long. Sparrow had traveled to the far North on some pretense of visiting Hammer. Theresa had allowed Sparrow those two years. Let the girl feel what it was like to be aimless, to see the injustices that still existed in their world even with Lucien’s death. Theresa believed that it would send Sparrow back to her and that they would once again be united in mind and purpose.

With a furious cry, Theresa allowed herself one out lash of will, lightning crackled through the air, striking the silver stand. The metal deflated and darkened to a sooty black and Theresa stared at it, watching the metal cool as she planned how to get Sparrow to her true purpose once more.

~~~

When Reaver woke he was covered by a threadbare blanket and he could hear Sparrow's voice speaking to someone else in a low tone. He waited, listening to the sound of her voice, husky and warm, as she spoke.

"I don't know what to do next, Lotus, nothing like that has ever happened to me before. I've seen things," Sparrow paused as if trying to find words for her experience. "I’ve done things I never thought possible but I've never stepped into someone else's vision. There were times when I couldn't move, when the vision was overwhelming and then at other times it was like the fabric of that world bent to my will."

"I don't know of these things, my song, speak to your Aunt. She will know." that was the high sing-song voice of Lotus. She must have come to check on her charges.

"I can't talk to her." Sparrow's voice was like the walls of Castle Fairfax, cold and unyielding.

"It is bad to hold onto these hurts. It will ruin your aura and unbalance your spirit. Go to her. Forgive her as you have forgiven Reaver and seek her guidance." Lotus spoke slowly, stretching out each syllable of each word as if she were tattooing them into Sparrow's skin.  "Not to mention-“

Reaver listened closely so he wouldn't miss Sparrow's next words. He heard her grunt and then do her little sputter of indignation.

"I have not forgiven him, Lotus. I- I can't! You know what he did."

And that was what he expected, stubborn hero being stubborn about everything.

"You're grievances are two years old, Sparrow. Your mind clings to them like the last frosts of winter."

“His selfish actions killed my dog and hurt my friends.”

“The sapling will never survive if it does not bend. Have you never been selfish? Do not aspire to be like the stone, Sparrow, immovable and unyielding. It is not what we are.” 

“You cannot compare our actions, Lotus, he has done terrible things, ruined lives, and murdered for no other reason than a whim. We are nothing alike.”

Lotus hummed, her musical voice thoughtful as she offered Sparrow one last gift of wisdom. “Do not close yourself off, my songbird, if he follows you now it may be for a reason you cannot yet see. He is has hero blood in him, just as you do. You have lived alone for so long, I would hate to see you turn away the only other in the world like you.”

“Because he has Hero blood?” Sparrow scoffed. “Hammer and Garth both have it. If I am lonely I will just visit them.”

“Do as you will Sparrow, but do not let your anger drive you anymore. In the end it will gain you nothing.” 

Sparrow was silent, but Reaver could feel her irritation at Lotus's insistence on peace like a cheap rug on his bare ass. Prickly and coarse. He thought about stirring from the bed, he was starving for the first time in days, but the women started speaking again and he was never one to pass up a chance to eavesdrop.

"How's Cloud doing?" Sparrow turned the conversation towards a friendlier subject though her tone was tense.

"Oh the old bastard is fine. Still thinks I don't know he's sleeping with Willow or Root but such is his simple mind." Lotus laughed cheerfully. "Reg's death has him shaken though but he'll pull through."

Sparrow breathed in sharply and Reaver bet her eyes were wide at the news. 

Lotus gasped, "Oh my song, you didn't know?"

"How?" Sparrow's voice was flat, empty.

"The guards brought her back to us. They found her in an abandoned warehouse in Old Town."

The old healer made a series of noises that Reaver supposed was intended to be comforting.

"Arfur." Sparrow's tone was harsh, the word filled with all her hatred for the unfairness of life.

"Yes, the guards think it was him. It was his warehouse they said. Oh Sparrow, let it go. Reg is free now and she would never want you to brood over her death."

Sparrow was silent and the cave seemed to darken with her mood.

Reaver heard Lotus make more soothing noises, followed by the rustling of skirts and the soft pat of bare feet on stone. Soon, the old woman had disappeared into the tunnel and Reaver and Sparrow were alone.

He was debating whether or not to reveal himself, Sparrow was likely to be in a foul mood and he was completely uninterested in any discussions on his “true purpose” or on how much of a “selfish ass” he was. Sleep was appealing. The pirate felt at once that he had been asleep for days and also that he hadn’t even closed his eyes in days. He felt exhausted. He felt restless. He bitterly regretted making a detour through Bloodstone and meeting Sparrow again. He was grateful that she was there.

Feeling all of these complex emotions and having no weaker person nearby on which to thrust them, Reaver allowed his eyelids to slip close. His breathing relaxed and he was nearly asleep when his stomach, traitor that it was, growled. Loudly. Embarrassingly. Twice. Like a bear and a moose competing for loudest mating call.

He heard Sparrow yelp in surprise and he wanted to die.

“Was that you?” her question followed quickly, her dark mood apparently gone at the ferociousness of his stomach.

Reaver made a noncommittal noise, he was still too fogged with sleep to use his voice. He did roll onto his back though, pushing the threadbare quilt from his shoulders without wincing at the pain the movement elicited in his ribs. He looked at the hero, blinking his eyes once or twice to clear the sleep from them.

Sparrow matched his gaze, her expression frustratingly unreadable until a small smile quirked up the left corner of her mouth and her green eyes warmed.

“You look like a wintering rabbit woken too early.”

“Spare me your colloquialisms.”

She rolled her eyes, her arms were crossed beneath her breasts and she was leaning back on her left leg, her hip out to one side. It was her business stance. Her ‘I like you but I will still interrogate you’ stance. Her ‘I’m the Hero here’ stance.

Reaver rolled to his feet, kept his balance, and idly looked around the cave. Little had changed in the night though there was a new basket of food on the old desk.

Sparrow opened her mouth but Reaver cut her off.

“What happened last night?” his tone was casual and he mentally congratulated himself for keeping the panic from entering his voice. He remembered their conversation, Sparrow needling him for his life story and having the brilliant idea to ask Sparrow for an equally dark secret in return. He knew he was going to tell her what she wanted, he couldn’t hold it back any longer, but he was going to get something out of the misery. That was where his recollection of the night ended. The rest was a haze old memories played over the soundtrack of _her_ screams and at some point they had become Sparrow’s.

 “We had a vision.” Sparrow spoke calmly, the uneasiness that was present in her conversation with Lotus, held back. She was watching him carefully, her green eyes searching for his face for his reaction.

“’We?’” Reaver repeated, narrowing his eyes but, finally, meeting her gaze. His dreams made sense suddenly. The vision had come to him again, bloody Margret’s ghost screaming at him and the flashes of copper always on the edge of the dream. Sparrow’s screams. His shoulders sank and suddenly Reaver felt very, very old. “You saw it all then.”

Sparrow nodded wordlessly.

“Well.” That was all he had. His stomach released another embarrassing growl. He stared at the food but didn't move towards it. He felt hollow, not like a great weight had been lifted off of his shoulders but as if it had been torn from him and thrown to the ground at his feet.

Sparrow tried to read Reaver, tried to sense where he was going with the death glare he was giving the homely basket filled with provisions. He was upset, she knew that, his stubbly jaw was stiff and his shoulders were dropped. On any other man she would be ready for him to rush her and try to drive her off her feet with sheer force. Reaver cared about his face too much to do that and there wasn't anger or panic in his eyes. Just weariness.

Maybe she could read him better than she thought.

"I understand now." Sparrow wanted to move towards him. Or away from him. She felt rooted in place. She felt that if she moved now she would break whatever spell this was that had come over the both of them and whatever path they were on would be lost forever.

 _I'm not ready to be alone again._  The thought came to her suddenly and with it all the despair and loneliness that had eaten at her heart since Rose's death. Theresa had been a guardian, a watcher, and not a mother or a friend. Hammer had ultimately left and so had Garth. Yet here was Reaver. Light cursed Reaver of all people was still here. 

“Some of it. How you ended up,” She gestured at all of him and tried to think of a better way to say what she was trying to say.

“With such a chiseled jaw? Exorbitantly rich?” Reaver arched a dark eyebrow at her but his heart wasn’t in his words.

“Immortal.” She finished opting for the most factual of descriptors for what Reaver was.

“Ah, well, _hero_ ," Reaver leaned into the title with all his usual sarcasm. “Did you enjoy the tale? You should congratulate yourself. There is only one other alive besides us who knows my story and she was considerably manipulative about it. You take after your Aunt in more ways than you think.” His voice was rough and angry.

The spell was broken, Sparrow moved towards Reaver, “You were going to tell me anyway! We agreed. I did not insert myself into your ‘dream vision’ or whatever the blazes it was.” She did not prod his chest with her finger, to which Reaver was grateful, a poke from Sparrow was a likely to be irritating as it was to send him flying across the room if she wanted.

She stopped, froze really, an odd look coming over her face and a shiver, noticeably, running down her spine.

Reaver ignored the growling of his stomach and rubbed his temples. “What?”

She shook her head, copper hair shimmering in the fire light, “Nothing.” Some of the energy had gone out of her voice but she seemed otherwise unaffected. “I still have questions, Reaver.”

 “Don’t you know everything now?” 

Sparrow gathered herself up, shaking off thought had briefly distracted her. “No, Reaver, I don’t know nearly enough.”

He considered her for a moment. It did not escape him that Sparrow had a tendency to be as tight lipped about herself as he was. After this was done, he would have some questions of his own. "If you want to discuss those bloody details than can we do it over breakfast?”

This time his words were punctuated by the not so quiet rumbling of Sparrow’s own stomach and she nodded with gusto.

 


	12. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow and Reaver resupply at the Bowerstone Traveler Camp before embarking on a new adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few ocs in here to give a little depth to Sparrow's time in the camp. Reaver also tries to figure out how old she is and for anyone interested, I've always headcanoned my Sparrows as being younger than the game wants. If she started out at 18, and did everything in the first year, then she was imprisoned at 19 for ten years which would put Sparrow at age 29 at the end of Fable 2 and then 32 for this story. My version goes something like this: Rose dies when Sparrow is 7 or 8, she spends 10 years with Theresa, gets imprisoned in the Spire during her first year adventuring, spends max 5 years in the Spire (because she's a Hero basically all powerful within the games own canon lore like c'mon), defeats Lucien and travels for 2 years putting her at roughly 25 years old.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Sparrow had entertained thoughts of asking Reaver questions about the details of their shared vision, but the hero quickly dropped the idea in favor of consuming everything within reach. Reaver’s stomach may have been louder than hers but she was every bit as famished as him.  

“When you fire your cook at the Cow and Corset,” Reaver wiped milk and bread crumbs from his face with the back of his sleeve. “Please, Hero, hire this woman.”  

Sparrow shook her head, chuckling, “I’m not firing the cook.”

Reaver leaned back in his chair, “Of course you won’t. You probably don’t even have a cook anymore.”

Sparrow paused and set a roll smothered in fresh butter back on the scarred oaken tabletop. The image of Bowerstone Square burning flashed before her eyes, the tavern had been destroyed, just a burning ruin. "No, I probably don't."

"It isn't your fault." Reaver's confident voice cut through the waft of dark thoughts that had begun to surface in Sparrow's mind. He held her gaze steadily with his own.  

_Is he...comforting me?_ Sparrow wondered more than a little surprised at the action. Reaver had become less of an enemy over the last string of days but he had not moved from her list of antagonists. He was still the antithesis of everything that she stood for, even if his path was not initially as deliberately evil as she once believed.  

"Actually," Reaver leaned his head to the side, still watching her, but his gaze was more thoughtful now. "It is your fault because Arfur was trying to kill you in the surest sense of the word. We both know that falling, getting shot, stabbing, are hardly surefire ways of killing a hero." A sardonic smile graced his lips.

"Okay." Sparrow groaned and took a bite of her roll. _Nope, of course not. Silly me._

Reaver did not take the hint and continued his stream of consciousness. "Though I suppose it would go back further to the beginning of your blood feud with that weasel of a man. Killing him in infancy would have been a saintly act. He had terrible skin and the most heinous nose."

"That's enough." Sparrow growled.  

Reaver half raised his hands in a placating gesture and then turned away from the table to surrender to a wheezing cough.  

"So is that part of your deal too?" Sparrow wiped her mouth and then leaned her arms on the table. "Do you get weaker the longer you don't pay or something?"  

Reaver gasped and turned back to face her, beads of sweat clinging to his temples. “Weak? Me?” he flashed a perfectly charming smile at her. “Never. Susceptible? Yes. Mortal, perhaps if I delay long enough.”  

“They won’t steal back the years they have given you?”

“In truth, I have never tested the limits of my unique condition. My bill comes due and I pay it without fail. The Shadow Court is not an enemy I would like to make.”  

Sparrow shook her head and rubbed the back of her hand over her forehead. “But they have not sent you the Seal. The court, how do they send it to you?”

“A macabre parade of skeletons lead by a banner man astride a six legged black stallion with glowing red eyes.”

Sparrow grabbed another roll from the basket and threw it at Reaver’s head.  

“It appears nearby. I always know when it is close.” Reaver clarified as he dodged the roll. “What a terrible waste. I shall mourn your loss, dear roll.”  

Sparrow chewed absently on her bottom lip while she thought. Was it possible that the Court was no longer interested in their deal with Reaver? She had held the seal herself, it was obviously a thing of dark magic. If it had not appeared for Reaver yet and he was already feeling the effects then it was unlikely that the Court forgot or it was misplaced while on route to him. It was a magical seal with the power to strip the youth from one person and bestow it on another, it was not something you just misplaced. How it appeared and disappeared on its own kind of reminded her of the music box that Rose had bought. It had been an Old Kingdom artifact, unbeknownst to them at the time, but Theresa had known and so had the trader. Theresa was out of the question, the seer wanted to be left alone in the Spire doing whatever it was she had wanted with it. Besides, it was highly unlikely that she would want to help Reaver, or be pleased that Sparrow was.

“We need to find a trader!” Sparrow declared and stood quickly from her makeshift chair.  

Reaver blinked at her, “Pardon?”

“Pack up your things.” Sparrow waved at the food basket as she began to tear through the pile of missives her Traveler family had brought with the food for her and Reaver. “We’ve spent enough time in this bloody cave.” She flipped through appeals for eradications of beetles, bandit bounties, the letter that was addressed to her using full title, three letters from Bowerstone (probably begging her to stay away), but the flyer she was looking for was not there. “Where did I put it?” She looked over the cave, padding silently over to the rickety bed and tossing through the blanket.  

“It appears, Hero that you have come to some sort of decision but neglected to tell me?” Reaver asked.  

“We need an expert,” Sparrow was now patting down her dress. She could feel something…there! She reached into the pocket and pulled out the brightly colored flyer she was looking for. “We need an expert on Old Kingdom Artifacts. There is a woman in Fairfax gardens who claims to be one but she has never seen anything outside of those gardens in her life. Garth," Sparrow briefly considered trying to send word to the old mage and then shook her head. Samarkand was too far for any word to reach him in time. _In time for what?_ Sparrow stared at the flyer, eyes unfocused, the colors seemed to darken and morph before her eyes. The tips of her fingers went numb and she could feel the prickling of gooseflesh down her arms. The ink pooled in the center of the parchment; the ink bubbled and swirled until it seemed as if it would boil off the page and stain the whole world in black.  

Sparrow blinked and the flyer was once again just an obnoxiously designed advertisement for Murgo's Marvelous Trading Post. She walked quickly over to Reaver, pushing the ominous vision away for later, and added a little bounce to her step. After all, there was no better feeling in the world than the one before beginning a quest. She held up the colorful flyer for him to see, a rare heartfelt grin spreading over her face. This felt right. In her heart, Murgo may not have answers but he would have clues for them to follow.  

Reaver viewed the letter and then Sparrow's sudden surge of enthusiasm much as one would a puppy trying to catch a butterfly, adorable but foolish. "Murgo? He is a conman. A purveyor of cheap fakes."  

"Not everything." Sparrow countered as she folded the paper into a neat square and tucked it into her pocket. She moved to the table and started packing up the food that she and Reaver had not touched. "When I was a child, he was in Old Town. He was hawking all sorts but there was this music box among it all. He said it could grant wishes. It worked." She didn't elaborate further about how it worked  

Reaver watched, piecing together Sparrow's thoughts aloud. "So because he _once_ had a genuine artifact than he may have come across the seal? That is-" He flicked an errant lock of hair from his eyes. "That is actually not the worst idea you have had, Sparrow. An artifact that could exchange youth for old age would fetch a high price in the right market. Besides, we know the seal has left a trail."  

"If anything he might have heard something. This is the only lead we have other than going to Theresa." Sparrow tied the leather tongs that kept the handspun basket closed and then set her hands on either side of it, bracing herself against the table. "I don't think she'd help us. You, actually, she never liked you."  

Reaver shrugged, he was hardly surprised. Theresa was pragmatic woman. She had seen his purpose and tolerated him for as long needed. No more and no less.

With the food safely stowed for later, Sparrow gestured for Reaver to lead the way out of the cave. She may not have all of the answers as concretely as she would have liked from him. She did know that Reaver was trying to manipulate something with the Shadow Court. There was more going on than he lost the seal. He had said, before the vision, that he was playing a long game. Whatever it was, she was important in some way to him. It. She was important to it.   

Either way, she was as sick of sitting in the Guild Cave as Reaver was.  

"Ah, at last!" He stretched the light in the mid-morning, clearly delighting in its heat. A sharp contrast to the cold, dank of the Guild Cave. He followed it up with an exuberant and exaggerated breath of lake air. It resulted in only a minor coughing fit.  

Sparrow wiggled her bare toes in the cool, loose dirt outside the cave entrance. She rolled her shoulders and her neck, relishing in the loud pops her joints made. The sun did feel glorious.

"We should see Lotus before we leave." She jerked her head toward the little jetty where an old but sturdy row boat was moored. "She likely took our gear to Amber the smith for repairs while we healed."   

"As long as it is away from here," Reaver stretched once more, his movements reminiscent of a cat waking up from a long nap, then winced a little at the strain it put on his side. "I am yours to command."  

Sparrow side eyed him as she busied herself with untying the boat. "Are you sure you want to do this? Our interests may not exactly," she paused as Reaver leaped into the boat and she pushed them off into the lake. "Align."  

"We can discuss the finer points of our alliance on the road, little song." He grinned at how Sparrow sat up straight and the color rushed to her cheeks. "Not many walls in that cave."  

"You were listening?" She pulled quickly on the oars and the little boat shot forward.  

Reaver scoffed, merrily, the fresh air had put him in a good mood. He could almost forget everything that transpired in the cave, but for the soreness in his ribs, the lingering wheeze in his lungs, and the slight chill of fear that Sparrow knew everything there was to know about the night he sold his village to the Shadows.  

"I was trying to sleep. I could hardly rest with you nattering away in the corner."  

"Eavesdropper."  

"Blabbermouth."

They traded insults and laughter all the way to the shore and half the way up the hill to the Traveler camp. They probably would have continued all the way to Lotus's little caravan but Sparrow's attention was captivated by the army of swarthy, dusty, brightly clothed children that met them at the bridge.  

"Sparrah!" Several of the called for her and she rushed ahead to meet them.  

They climbed all over her and pushed and pulled her away from Reaver and into the camp.  

Reaver's path was not so clear. A girl, dressed in dusty patch worked pants that ballooned to her ankles and a short, sleeveless blue and red top that seemed to be composed of tied together handkerchiefs blocked his way. Her hair was dark and braided in a style very similar to the Hero's.  

"You like the last bloke she showed?"

Reaver hesitated, taken aback by the vehmence of the child's tone. "Pardon?"

The girl studied him, sniffed loudly, unimpressed with his answer. "Ye try anythin' an I'll cut yer." She patted the sheath at her waist that was nearly the length of her thigh. She sniffed again, spat at his feet, and then was gone in a cloud of dust.  

"Where have you been?" Sparrow asked him when he finally joined her outside a violet and green wooden caravan in the center of the camp. They stood on the edge of the crowd surrounding the little hovel. A man in red and yellow clothes with a white pointy beard was working the crowd.  

"Being interrogated and threatened by your number one fan." He scanned the gathering for the girl. "That one over there."  

The girl sat on the ground, three kids jockeying for her lap and a heavily tattooed man patiently re-braiding her hair.  

Sparrow's mouth quirked up fondly, "That'd be Rain. She's Storm's girl. The one braiding her hair? He's the best tattoo artist in the camp." Sparrow glanced at Reaver. "What did she say to you?"

"She wanted to know if I was the at all similar to the last, and I quote, 'bloke' you brought here. Threatened to cut me if I 'tried anything.'" he tilted his head lazily towards Sparrow. "Little brute."  

Sparrow groaned and covered her face, "She did not! She doesn't even have anything to cut you with. That sheath is empty." It was common knowledge that the travelers were maybe a little sticky fingered, but overall peaceful. They could and would defend themselves when needed but children were never allowed to keep weapons. Rain had been her tagalong in Sparrow's younger hero years, when she still frequented the camp in between jobs. She made a mental note to warn the girl's father.  

"Don't bring many men home, do you Sparrow?" Reaver grinned, his eyes mischievous. "I'm honored.   

"Shut it." Sparrow lifted a rucksack from the ground. "Or don't you want your precious pistol back?"

"You are the pinnacle of purity! A light in this dark world, Oh Great Hero." Reaver bowed low and with great flourish.  

Sparrow swung the bag into his middle, "Oops!" she said when the impact made him gasp and stagger back a step. "Come on, I'm not leaving you in the open alone." She turned away, her expression playful and her eyes light. Her loose hair softened the angles of her face.  

He stared, maybe a little too obviously and for a little too long. It was like she was a completely different person. It was like the Hero just melted away. Her lips had curved into something other than a disapproving frown and the shadows under eyes (while not entirely gone) had retreated after a week of forced rest. Suddenly, Reaver wondered how old she was. He tried to do the mental calculations himself, routing through the rumors and little slips that Sparrow herself had made. She couldn't have been more than ten when Theresa found her and then she would have needed to grow into womanhood before the seer would have thrown her at Lucien. Then there was the small matter of her imprisonment in the Spire. How long had that been? Five? Ten years? Sparrow was tight lipped about herself but she had literally never spoken of the Spire or her time there under Lucien's rule in his company.

She beckoned for him to follow and he did, carefully picking his way through the now large throng of brightly clothed people.  

***

Sparrow walked towards her caravan, Theresa's caravan, with little trepidation. After all, it was just a place where the woman had lived and not the woman herself. It looked no different than any of the other wagon like dwellings in the camp. It was compact with a rounded roof that stuck out an extra foot or so from the house to provide cover to the driver as they managed the horses during travel. The built in driving seat also acted as extra storage. There were little round windows on each side and a large rounded door at one end that was split so the lower half could be closed and the top stay open to let in air and light. Unlike the other caravans, Theresa's caravan was decorated simply. The bulk of the wood was stained a rich brown and the roof was painted red with only a few swirling designs in gold and purple.  

Sparrow hesitated at the beginning of the short, three stone path that lead to the door. Here was where she healed from Lucian's first attempt on her life and where she learned what Theresa believed it was prudent for a young girl to know: to read and to write and to fight. She remembered the first day she had walked out of the caravan, her dog supporting her and gasped. Everything was green! The air had smelled like a noble ladies that sometimes came to gawk at the poor in Old Town, only without the cloying stench. She had never been outside of Bowerstone Old Town in her life (that she remembered) and at eight years old it was dumbfounding. Who knew that the air could be so fresh? The world so full of colors? The nights so quiet? Everything had changed for her, the whole course of her future altered. She had liked to imagine that Theresa had taken her in out of pity and taught her and kept her out of love. Sparrow had certainly expected to be tossed out as soon as she could take two steps in a straight line, but Theresa had kept her and fed her and clothed her and taught her but she had not loved her. That, out of everything, was probably what stung the most.

"Just wait here." Sparrow gestured at the solid oak steps as she bypassed them completely and hopped onto the small porch. "I need to change out of this dress before we leave."  

Reaver followed her up the stairs but he did not sit, instead he leaned against the supports and watched Sparrow curiously through the open door.  

"This is your home?" He asked, a little of his usual disdain showing in his tone but mostly his voice was clouded with something else. Something Sparrow could not identify.  

The caravan was unlocked, as she had expected, and well looked after. Lotus or one of her apprentices likely came in here to clean once a week. Relying on muscle memory that she had not used in three years at least, Sparrow picked through the various cabinets and doors, all cleverly carved and placed within the small home so that they used the least amount of space but offered the most functionality.  

"It is, or was, Theresa's." She replied as she threw and extra pair of breeches, shirt, and vest onto the narrow bench/cot that had once been her bed.  

Reaver was silent, she could feel him thinking almost. Like there were great big cogs in his head turning slowly and then more quickly as he realized something important. Instead of pestering him about it, as she would have done only a day ago, Sparrow let him be. It was odd and very counter to the persona he wore about him, but Sparrow was beginning to trust that if Reaver had something he wanted to tell her he would.

"This is where she raised you." He almost sounded like he was in awe.

She waited for the inevitable dig, "it's so small" or something equally demeaning about the little home to follow. It didn't. Sparrow turned her attention to him though she still flitted through the caravan packing little odds and ends into her old rucksack.  

He was framed by the door, the late afternoon sun shining down on him through the tall trees. A gentle reminder from the universe, it seemed, that Reaver was very, very attractive. Even with a week old beard, the fresh scar on his hairline, and the slight hollowness about his cheeks. What was once a god of seduction (not in Sparrow's mind of course but she couldn't deny the sheer number of men and woman who had chased Reaver in spite of his murderous tendencies) was now human. He was vulnerable. He could be hurt. He could be killed and truly? That vulnerability was far more effective on Sparrow than she cared to admit.  

"Yes." She answered him. She could tell he was studying the interior from his vantage point on the porch. There wasn't much to see. Anything important Theresa had obviously taken with her to the Spire. There were empty spaces on the bookshelf, her crystal ball was gone and the ornate wooden box that held her tarot cards was also missing.  

There were a couple of other things missing too that, if Sparrow had had more time, she would have noticed. For instance there was a tome of fairytales missing from the series displayed on the middle shelf. The same tome that Theresa had taught Sparrow to read with; though, it held something more precious than stories. Her first year in the camp, Sparrow had been obsessed with flowers. She had spent hours hunting all over for new specimens, which she always brought back to Theresa. The seer would then patiently name the flower and describe it uses, if there were any. Sparrow would listen, enraptured, and then shyly tell Theresa it was a gift. It was in that missing tome that Theresa had pressed each flower Sparrow had given her.  

But, Sparrow did not notice and thus missed a rare show of her adoptive aunt's affection. Instead the hero shoved a health potion (those didn't go bad right?) into her pack and stared at Reaver, her mouth open a little and her ears waiting to pick up the familiar cadence of a left handed compliment. _Maybe he wants proof?_  She thought, though it was a little strange.  

She pointed at the porch where he stood. "I used to sit there and read to Theresa while she spun. When she told fortunes I used to sit on the roof and make scraping and scratching noises." Then she pointed to the roof.  

"Sometimes I'd hang over the edge and look in through the window to scare her clients." That was a fond memory. She had scared one, a fat baron with a guilty conscience, so bad he'd thrown his gold at Theresa and run screaming from the camp, his palanquin left in the dust. 

The corner of Reaver's mouth quirked up, "I knew you had a little thief in you."

Sparrow shrugged, "Hardly counts. I don't think he ever missed a meal cause of it. Turn around, would ya? I need to change." She held up a bit of her skirt to emphasize the point. She had scavenged anything of use or possible use from the caravan.  

"Close the door."  

"I don't want you peeking through the window."  

Reaver turned with a wink and a wistful sigh.  

Sparrow closed the door and carefully removed her linen dress. She folded it well as she could and then placed it in the drawer that she had gotten her old clothes from. It seemed silly to treasure a dress, especially one from a man who spent his whole life making people act and dress to his own personal standards. It was silly, but it was also a pretty dress. With the dress safely stowed, Sparrow worked quickly to dress herself. The clothes were old but only by a few years so she had no trouble with fit. Once her pants were tucked into her boots she grabbed a coat from the hook by the door and then pulled it open, relieved to see that Reaver was still standing on the porch and dismayed to see that Rain was trying to glare him to death from the path.  

"Says 'es a 'ero." Rain grumbled from her place on the path. 

Sparrow dropped her bag on the porch and stuffed her arms through the old coat. It was bigger than the one she had lost to the explosion but it would do. She couldn't remember where she had gotten it. Theresa had had no male "visitors" who could have forgotten it after a rendezvous and Sparrow would've remembered inheriting a coat like this from one of the men in the camp. The length was perfect, the hem just brushing against her ankles, and the long slit in the back meant even if she buckled it closed she her legs wouldn't be restricted. The color was somewhere between dark brown and black and that suited her just fine. 

"What're you sneaking around for?" Sparrow asked the girl. "He's with me and that's all that matters." She ignored the surprised look that Reaver flashed at her. 

Rain turned this fact over in her mind for a minute and then nodded. "Whatcha doin' with 'im?" 

"Saving his life." Sparrow elbowed the pirate. "You ready?" 

Too stunned for words, Reaver simply nodded and followed Sparrow mutely from the caravan. His mind now no longer preoccupied with gleaning as much information from the rare intimate setting of Sparrow's childhood home. Instead, he was trying to figure out if saving his life actually meant just that.

 


	13. Sleepover at Garth's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow and Reaver go on a nature walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always imagined that Garth's tower looked like an episode of Hoarders.

It was late afternoon by the time the two hit the road, settled with provisions, camping gear, and weapons. It seemed like the whole camp was following them as they walked the twisting paths of Bowerlake. As the forest thickened more of the travelers peeled off, shouting or singing their goodbyes and blessings at the two. It was all very idyllic. At last, at a turn in the path that looked like every other turn in the path to Reaver but was somehow significant, with only a handful of travelers.  

"Take care, Sparrow." Lotus stood on her the tips of her toes to plant a kiss on Sparrow's forehead. Even then Sparrow had to lean down for the healer. "Know you will always have a place with us."  

"I know." Sparrow smiled at the woman. "If anyone comes looking for me or us," she amended with a quick look at Reaver. "Tell them we are headed to Westcliff. After that I don't know."  

"Chasing the wind, eh Sparrow?" one of the men in the pack of remaining travelers called to her. 

Sparrow shrugged but didn't say anything else about their quest.  

Lotus nodded at her, "Of course. Anything else you'll be needing from us?"   

"There is a purse in my caravan. If you could have a runner take it to the Sheriff in Bowerstone for repairs and compensation, I'd be grateful. I'd do it myself, but we need to be in Westcliff as soon as possible."   

"Aye, I'm sure Gus or River will be happy to go." Lotus agreed.  

There was a brief argument in the ranks about who was faster and a more reliable runner, apparently the two individuals in question were present an eager for the job.  

"Shut it!" Lotus cried over the din and then turned back to Sparrow and Reaver. "Off with ye then. May the wind be at your back and your path ever clear before you." She raised her hands above her heads and the group behind her did as well. She waved them left, right, backwards and then forwards. Then she actually shooed them. "Until we meet again!"  

Reaver watched, amused, and once he and Sparrow were a few yards down the path he asked,  

"What in heavens was that?"  

"What?" Sparrow raised her eyebrows in surprise. Her hands were busy behind her head, deftly twirling her now braided hair into a tight coil at the back of her head. She flicked a long, thin metal instrument from her coat sleeve and expertly pushed it into the bun. "Did you see something?"  

"No, no." Reaver waved his hands in circles over his head. "All that." As an aside he added, with a chuckle, "You look like an owl." Sparrow had started to earnestly inspect the woods on either side of the path.  

Sparrow quirked her head to the side and then her eyes brightened as she realized what he meant.  

"Oh! The blessing? That's just how we say goodbye." She decided to ignore the owl comment.  

Reaver arched an eyebrow in classic distaste. "Why?" 

Sparrow rolled her eyes, "Is this the part where I'm supposed to be shocked that you don't understand kindness or is that still coming?"   

Reaver rolled his eyes in answer and an uneasy silence fell between them because  _yes_  it was that part. 

They walked in silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts. Sparrow used the time to plan their route, mentally making allowances for Reaver's current condition and potential obstacles. It was unclear to her what Reaver was using the time for, until she caught him snagging a leaf from a bow backed tree that arched over their path. He was sightseeing. 

Unable to help herself, Sparrow laughed aloud and then clapped her hand over her mouth, quickly stifling the sound.  

Reaver gave her a quick questioning look before his gaze turned mischievous. "Did you just have a naughty thought?" He asked. 

Sparrow shook her head, "No, of course not!"  

"Oh." Reaver sighed, seeming disappointed.  

Silence fell between the hero and the pirate once again, but this time Sparrow kept an eye on Reaver (under the pretense of watching out for bandits and hobbes which she was totally doing too). Every so often his hands would dart out, brushing against the rough bark of branches or the slippery texture of new spring leaves. 

"How long has it been since you walked anywhere?" Sparrow asked finally. It made a little sense that he probably did not come to these woods, or, even, any woods at all. He was a pirate, semi-retired, and he grew up in a seaside village. The Dark Wood was nearby but it was hardly a good example of forest. So many of the trees in it were ancient, gnarled, wicked looking things that hid dark fairies and balverines. So, with that in mind, his need to touch  _everything_  made sense, but Sparrow was not going to get poison ivy because he picked the wrong leaf from the wrong plant out of curiosity.  

"Two years, but I was busier then." Reaver said thoughtfully. "We all came out here once didn't we? Something for Garth? I honestly can't remember. Hammer's hair was distractingly atrocious and your shirts used to be lower cut." 

"Scoundrel." Sparrow chided him as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She had never been one to pay much attention to fashion. Sparrow had never had the money to, but she had rebelled against the high-necked dresses that were in fashion at the time with unlaced shirts with plunging necklines. Ah, youth.  

The conversation petered out again and Sparrow occupied her mind with plans for their route to Westcliff while Reaver continued his nature walk.  

She was deep in planning a dozen different scenarios for the Bandit Coast when she sensed Reaver starting to lag. A quick glance at the lofty trees, already full with new leaves, and dull grey of Witch Stones peeking through the trees ahead told her that they were near Garth's Tower. The sun would be setting soon and Reaver clearly needed a rest, and Sparrow suspected he wouldn't ask for it.  

She veered off the wide path, choosing a narrow trail marked with a glossy black stone at its mouth. The hero glanced back to see if Reaver had followed her and, upon seeing that he had, she pointed further down the path towards their destination.  

"Garth's Tower isn't too far. We can rest there for the night." Already they were losing sunlight under the trees, but there was still enough for them to see. If it was full dark before they reached the tower, Sparrow could easily light the way with mage light. Years of hobbe hunting and supporting the guard-turned-farmer Giles against bandits meant that the forest was relatively safe. She hoped that hadn't changed in the last two years.  

"If I recall correctly what you call a tower," Reaver paused to swipe a tree branch from his path. "Is in reality a ruin."  

"In some spots...yes, but the tower itself is in fine condition." Sparrow pursed her lips in thought, it had been more than two years since she had set foot in Garth's home. The last time had to have been before they performed Theresa's ritual but after her time in the Spire. "I hope." she muttered under her breath.  She also thought it wise to not mention the haunted bed.  

It was another hour of picking through the overgrown trail before they reached the dilapidated stairs that marked the entrance to the ruins where Garth's tower resided.  

Reaver, for whom the novelty of hiking through a forest had clearly worn off, was grumbling under his breath with a slight wheeze about how nature "ruins everything" and "idiot heroes who lie about time and distance always get their comeuppance."  

Sparrow was in the midst of loudly reminding him just how lucky he was that she had decided to help him rather than "barbecue him and do the world a favor."   

"Oh how  _heroic!_ " Reaver sneered. “Always putting the world first, aren’t you?” He was a whole set of stairs behind Sparrow. The meager silver lining was that it was the last, crumbling grand staircase before the door to Garth’s Tower.  

“If you’re going to be like this for the entire trip I’m going to burn off my own ears so I don’t have to hear your screams!” Sparrow tossed back at him with equal venom as she pushed off the last step and then turned to watch Reaver as he finished the climb. Next time she saw Garth she was going to tell him exactly where he could shove all of these stairs.  

Reaver paused catching his breath. It had to be nearly a thousand stone steps to this point. Shadows, he was out of breath.  

In the dull light of twilight Sparrow looked mythic. Like the ghost of a Hero of Old, risen from the ruins. It was something about the light and something about how her copper red hair caught the last hidden rays of the light and little wisps had fallen out of her braided bun to frame her face. She seemed to stand straighter, despite her own fatigue, as if she were at last in her element out here on the ground of an abandoned mage’s tower. 

“You know, I liked you a lot better in the cave.” He told Sparrow. He brushed the same two locks of hair that were always falling into his eyes now, he must look horrible with his hair unkempt and week-old stubble on his jaw.  

She ignored his comment, instead waving him on with a quick roll of her eyes. “Oh come on you. It’s only three stairs. What self-respecting pirate let’s himself be defeated by three crumbly stairs.”  

“I knew one.” Reaver pulled himself up and started up the last set of stairs of this horrendous hike. Oh Shadows, he was going to have to go down these in the morning wasn’t he?  

“You already did all the others. Come on!" She hesitated for a second and then clapped her hands together comically a wry smile replacing her tired frown. "Ra-ra-ra and all that! You can do it! "  

Reaver paused, eyeing her with a mix of annoyance and suppressed amusement. "Really? That's how you encourage people?  

"Get your bloody ass up here before I scorch it."  

"That's more like it, Hero." Reaver resumed his tired progress up the stairs. It took him little time to reach the last step. 

Sparrow reached out to steady him but stopped. Instead she just gave him an inquisitive look, pressing her lips together as she thought of something. 

"You could stay here while I go on to Westcliff." Sparrow offered the pirate.  

"I'm fine." Reaver answered, again brushing his hair from his face before heading towards the tower door.  

Sparrow released a frustrated sigh and followed. He was obviously  _not okay_. A week after the trouble in Bowerstone and Reaver was still short of breath. Sure, she was a little winded by the four thousand Light blasted stairs leading to Garth's Tower, but she didn't feel nearly as winded as the stubborn pirate looked. He should have healed just as quickly as she had from the explosion of the clock tower, but he hadn't and he wasn't.  

"Reaver." Sparrow growled, preparing herself for another teeth pulling session of trying to get the most selfish and prideful man she had ever met to acknowledge that his immortality was literally being drained away before their eyes. Things were likely to get worse before they got better.  

Several long strides and she was caught up to him, grabbing his arm, and spinning him right round to face her. Their noses almost touched and what had been intended as some grumpily delivered advice quickly died in her throat. Sparrow stood frozen for the space of a heartbeat. Her mind spun; they were too close, he was staring at her,she was staring at him, was he leaning towards her? Her last observation was enough to break whatever hold had been on her. Sparrow stepped back, dropping her hand from Reaver’s arm, and glanced quickly about. Of course she needn’t have bothered with that, there was no one around to see them other than the animals of the forest.  

Reaver spoke first, as always, “Something you want to say, Hero?”  

“Only,” Sparrow absently tilted her head to the side, mentally digging for the thing she was going to say.  _Come on, we talked about this. Pretty face? Yes. Distraction? No._  

“I wait with baited breath.” Clearly he didn’t think she had anything to say. 

“Your immortality is being drained from you as we speak.” There it was! “You’re becoming mortal for the first time in centuries, Reaver. It’s okay to ask for help.” She nodded sharply as if agreeing with her own words again. 

He stared at her back, his jaw muscles flexing beneath the three day old stubble on the edges of face. They stood about a foot apart, Sparrow facing him squarely while he stood at an angle to the imposing hero. Reaver's thoughts strayed to the morning of his deal with the Court of Shadows.  _She_  had confronted him just like this. He had remained silent. It was the first time his tongue had failed him. There were no words to describe the fear and horror he felt or the dreadful knowledge he had gained in the Witch Wood. The words hadn't come to him then and  _she_  had stormed off, enraged by his continued silence. Yet another difference between  _her_ and Sparrow to add to the list.  

Sparrow rolled her shoulders and walked past Reaver an unfamiliar look in her eyes as their gazes locked and then disconnected.  

"I'll try," Reaver announced in that quieter tone of his that Sparrow was to grow accustomed to. "To remember that in the future, Hero."  

Sparrow paused and turned back to look at the unusually subdued pirate. "Careful, Reaver, or you might end up redeeming yourself." 

Reaver chuckled, "Oh, I doubt that."  

 


	14. Mother knows best.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theresa comes really close to singing a Disney Villain song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I excited myself with the ending of this chapter which is just silly. It was that moment, like in a book or tv show, where you go "oooohhh I know what they're doing!" except it's me, I'm the writer. I should know what I'm doing! This is such a slow build fic.
> 
> Also shout out to itsyaboi for writing a comment so sweet that I woke up my dog to read it to her!

Theresa was going to begin running out of options very soon. There was a nation to preserve, bloodlines to strengthen, and none of that was possible while the dear Hero of Bowerstone was out cavorting with the failed Hero of Skill. Theresa sank into the softly cushioned armchair behind the mahogany desk that occupied one side of her private chambers. There were few things left in the Spire from Lucian's tenure but this chair was one of her few comforts. The desk was covered with carefully laid maps and papers covered with notes written in the Seer's small, neat print. These were her plans, her machinations, at least a century of work steering the world away from a path of certain destruction. She stared at them, seemingly lost in a vision. Though her eyes were scarred, her bloodline had rescued her from true blindness. It had taken one lifetime for Theresa's sight to expand beyond fragmented visions and foreboding nightmares, but she had mastered her gift and turned it to a finer purpose.

"Do you understand now?" The voice, masculine and full of memories of simpler days, asked from the depths of her crystal ball.

Theresa shifted in her chair, propping her hands under her chin as she moved. Did she? What she understood was that eliminating the darkness from the world was a much slipperier task then she had first envisioned.

"I will succeed. I have seen it."

"At what cost?” the voice was desperate but soft, defeated, as though this were an argument long since lost.

As Theresa placed one delicate, pale hand on the cool surface of her crystal ball her expression was one of unending determination.

                “At any cost, Brother.”

~~~

Garth's tower was surprisingly clean despite years being left uninhabited by the will-user; however, much of the space was dominated by piles. Piles of books, piles of papers, piles of clothes, piles of blankets, just piles and piles and piles of things.

Once a space had been cleared, done in record time after Reaver had persuaded Sparrow to repeat her "little trick" from their escape of Bowerstone, the mood was drastically improved. A table had been sacrificed to the fireplace and Reaver had found a bottle of Hobbe's Water behind a stack of books on the creatures of Albion.

Sparrow took a tiny sip from the bottle and then grimaced, squirming as the alcohol burned its way down her throat.

"Ugh!" She coughed and passed the glass bottle back to Reaver. "Ale is one thing. I can at least pretend to understand why people drink it, but that," she coughed into her elbow. "That is vile."

Reaver accepted the bottle with a fond smile, "I'm honestly almost convinced that you truly are as pure as they say, Sparrow."

Sparrow arched an eyebrow at his comment but she couldn't hide her distaste. "Please, don't go into that. I hate that." She stretched over to the fire where she had a simple soup simmering. "I'm not perfect and I'm not the angel they say." Satisfied with the state of the soup, Sparrow relaxed back into her seat, drawing her left knee into her chest as she moved.

"Is that so?"

"I'm not like you if that's what you're implying, but I'm not what the people think I am either." Sparrow rested her chin on her knee and stared thoughtfully at the man across from her. Reaver was tipping back the bottle of Hobbe's Water for another swig. Some of the fog of exhaustion had cleared from his eyes and now they were back to their usual mischievous glint, almost. She was a little surprised with herself at how comfortable she felt at this moment. Alone with Reaver, traveling with him and relying on him to watch her back, she never dreamed she would find herself in this position again. Yet here she was, staring at him and wondering what he was thinking. Again. It was becoming a bad habit at this point.

He was staring with a little smile turning up the left corner of his mouth.  "What? You mean you are not the angelic Champion of Light sent to save Albion?"

Sparrow scoffed, "The ones that say that would be fallin' over themselves tryin' to take it back if they knew I used to eat from slop bins."

“The great hero from the humblest of origins. There are heroes with worse beginnings. Edwin Two Eyes, for example-“

Sparrow rolled her eyes, “Spare me, please!”

                “That is exactly what he said before I killed him.” Reaver laughed and set the bottle of alcohol within Sparrow’s reach. He looked up into the darkness of the tower, letting his fall back as he reminisced. “The fool actually thought he had _hero’s blood_ in him. A hundred years after the burning of the Fall of the Guild and all the remaining heroes were hunted down. Ridiculous!” The man had also taken to pilfering villages along the coast. Villages that had paid Reaver to turn a blind eye during his own raids.

                “Do you remember it?” Sparrow asked, it was something she had been quietly curious about since their very first meeting. A man over 200 years old? The histories and stories he could tell! Sparrow had learned quickly (within 5 minutes) that Reaver was only interested in telling stories that put himself front and center. She had dropped the notion of learning about the time when Heroes, true Heroes, walked the streets of Albion, until now. Sparrow nudged the bottle of Hobbe's Water back towards him with her toe. Drink always got the best stories out of Cloud the Storyteller. As a kid, Sparrow had snuck the storyteller mugs of sweet fermented milk in exchange for _Whisper and the Hero of Oakvale_ or _Wheldon and the legendary sword The Avenger_.

Reaver paused, cocking his head to the side, eyes watching Sparrow with an equal amount of curiosity, “I remember everything." He said seriously, his expression becoming stiff and unreadable.

Sparrow opened her mouth to apologize. Well not apologize, but to at least backtrack or turn it into a bad joke. Unlike Reaver's hallucinations that nearly got them both killed or his dealings with the Shadow Court, the tale of the Fall of the Guild was not one that was vitally important. It was just amazingly interesting.

 Reaver let loose a big wheezing laugh. "Oh you should have seen your face!” He cackled on for a moment or two longer while Sparrow rolled her eyes and gave their soup another stir.

With sparks crackling at her finger tips, Sparrow reached casually towards Reaver. Her target? The bare bit of calf where the cuff of his pants had pulled out of his boot.

"Ow!" He cried out as Sparrow brushed her fingers against his calf.

"Ha!" She let the lightning dance over her fingers for a second longer, enjoying the pout that had settled over Reaver's face.

"Oh how mature." Reaver rubbed at red mark that was starting to show where the hero had stung him.

 Sparrow gave him a toothy, childish grin before she stood and picked up two bowls she had set aside for the soup. She had managed to dig out of Garth's mess of a kitchen. The small space had consisted of a rusted out sink tucked beside a heavy cupboard with a crooked door. There had been plenty of eating utensils in the cupboard, but also a curious amount of left socks. Sparrow flicked her braid over her shoulder. Strands of hair had begun slipping out of it since she had let it down from the bun earlier.

She ladled soup for them both and then took her seat again passing Reaver his bowl silently before digging into hers with gusto. She glanced up at him when she noticed that he wasn't eating.

Sparrow licked a drop of soup from her lips and gestured at his bowl with her spoon. "Go on."

"What happens when we discover the seal?" He asked Sparrow, his grey eyes studying her intently. There was nothing there, no hint of fear or suspicion. It was like he was asking her about the weather.

"I can't let you use it." Sparrow answered quickly and honestly, her green gaze rising to meet his. "What I saw in our vision," she shuddered and pressed her hands against her soup bowl, as if the warmth she leeched from it could hold off a sudden chill. "Was evil. Not like Lucian Fairfax who was good once," though it was difficult for Sparrow to imagine the insane man had ever known the difference between right and wrong, "The Shadows are evil and always were and always will be."

Sparrow set her bowl down on the ground before her and braced her hands on her knees. She stared fixedly at her bowl. The shadow she had seen unleash death upon Oakvale was unlike anything she had seen in her years adventuring. Sparrow had met the Shadow Court (thanks to Reaver) in person but that encounter had felt _nothing_ like Reaver's memory of that monster in the woods. The Shadow Court was contained, their evil governed and dictated by a specific set of rules.

“I have to destroy it, for the good of Albion.”

Silence filled the room but they both knew what Sparrow was really saying. Sparrow had been nothing if not clear in her intent. Reaver could almost admire that in a way, knowing your own mind well enough to be plain with others.

Sparrow chewed her lip, uncomfortable with the growing tension between herself and Reaver. She could feel him revving up, gathering wits and words for battle. That was par for the course with them, she somewhat relished their fights now (exhausting as they could be) because for once it felt like she was fighting an equal. Reaver could match her mind and her body in a fight, and that was rare occurrence.

This was different. She was effectively looking Reaver in the eye and telling him that she was going to kill him. He deserved it too, probably, he certainly had lived long enough, gambled long enough with the lives of others for his own personal amusement to warrant death, but Sparrow wasn’t sure that death was the solution to the problem that was Reaver anymore. As if that wasn’t enough emotional and moral complication for Sparrow, she was beginning to doubt if Reaver’s fate was even her responsibility.

"And if it kills me? A pleasurable side-benefit?" Reaver asked, his tone soft but no less accusatory. He may want his deal done, the Court was a headache, but he was not ready to give up immortality. The pirate watched the Hero shrewdly, his grey gaze reading death in every twitch, every hesitation.

Sparrow hesitated, and looked up at him, her gaze moving slowly to meet his. The corner of her mouth twitched and there was a barely perceptive narrowing of her eyes.

I will lose, Reaver thought, swallowing hard as he had a sudden flash of what it would be like to fight her. Her tall frame wreathed in the blue light of her Will lines and red flames blossoming at her fingertips, a goddess of destruction and vengeance.

She spoke, her words launching out of her mouth before he could ramp up any sort of righteous indignation. The vision was dispelled and all Reaver saw before him was a copper haired young woman with green eyes and too many freckles at war with her emotions.

"Don't get the wrong idea!" She said holding up her left hand as if to stop Reaver from lunging across the space between them. "I don't want you dead. Or to kill you, anymore." She deflated just a little, like she was losing by admitting that to him.

If there was one person with the wrong idea here, it was Sparrow. She couldn’t want the Dark Seal destroyed and Reaver not to die, and Reaver wasn’t about to let the Hero blast her perspective at him like it was the only One Great Truth of the matter. “I hardly think that’s true. That seal is my life, Sparrow. It’s not your definition of a good life but it is _mine_. I don’t kill for it, in truth, the vagabonds and wastrels I send to the Court are the very same bandits and pirates you protect Albion from.”

Sparrow rolled her eyes, “No, they just die of premature old age.”

“Since when did you, all touched Lady Hero, start to give two pence about a couple of vagabonds?” Reaver spat back. Sparrow was a powerful (if infuriating) ally and if they were going to go forward on this quest thing, he wanted some guarantees that he would come out the other end alive. That wasn’t going to happen as long as they kept dancing around the issue that the Dark Seal was very integral to his long lifespan.   

Sparrow almost rose to her knees, “So their lives don’t matter because they are bandits and murderers?”

                “Do you think my life matters, Hero?” He surged to his feet, ignoring the protest of his tired limbs, and stared down at Sparrow demanding an answer.

She held his gaze, unflinchingly, and answered simply, “It matters to me.”

***

Across the small Western Sea and in the thickest part of the woods, far from the dull gazes of Knothole Island's only human inhabitants, a man stepped out of his house. He was tall, taller than any man on Knothole Island, and taller still than any in Albion. He stared off into the distance, seemingly at nothing, but he looked in the same direction that he always did in the evenings. The man looked South and a little to the East towards the land that he once called home. Sighing, as if the inevitable had just arrived on his doorstep, the man returned to the depths of his house.

When he reemerged he wore a thick leather tunic with shining silver mail peeking out from beneath. He had no coat, having left it somewhere long ago, but he did have a beautiful, ethereal sword strapped to his back. The man paused and glanced down at his feet. A chicken bobbed its head and looked dumbly back at him. With an annoyed grunt, the man kicked the chicken from the steps of his porch and then left, moving in smooth strides towards the coast.

~~~

“All lives matter to me.” Sparrow said. She held Reaver’s gaze in a show of confidence she could hardly feel. It wasn’t a lie, she did believe that all lives mattered their unique ways, but it wasn’t entirely true. Reaver was chaos manifested. He did what he wanted on his own terms and he was bad, or had been or would be again she couldn’t quiet tell. Reaver was her opposite, the person she used to pride herself on not being, but were they so different? Her desire for revenge had blinded her to Theresa’s manipulations and the result was a trail of bodies and unbelievably powerful Old Kingdom artifact falling into untrustworthy hands. If Reaver’s life didn’t matter, than what did that say about her own? 

“That so.”

Sparrow tossed her hands up in frustration. It was a good cover for the red tinging her cheeks too. “They do now. You think I wandered for two years and just pretended that everything over the past 20 odd years didn’t happen? I couldn’t. Theresa is hold up in the Spire with Light knows what kind of power and I can't trust anything anymore. My whole life was a game for her and, and-" Sparrow sucked in quick gasp of air. There it was. The familiar thrum of the Spire hammering into her skull and buzzing down her spine. How could he not feel it too this time? The force of it rattled her teeth. No thought of her adoptive Aunt or the Spire went unpunctuated by the destructive hum of the Spire. It was as if she had never left the prison, that all this was a fever dream and that one day she would wake to a stone sky and a stone floor and stone walls, the cold heartbeat of the Spire possessing her until she could only breathe when she felt its beat pounding in her skull.

Sparrow curled in on herself, her body tensing with each powerful beat. A minute or years passed like this, she couldn’t tell but there was no fading of the noise, no release as there had been in the past.

                “Open your eyes, Sparrow.” Said a voice and it wasn’t Reaver. The voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but strong, as if each word were backed with the weight of a thousand years of certainty. “Open your eyes, girl, the illusion cannot last.”

Sparrow resisted only until the pounding in her head became too much, each beat reverberating tenfold in her skull, and then she opened her eyes and vomited onto the floor.

                “Fool.” Cold fingers brushed her forehead and neck, gathered her hair back from her face and held tightly onto her shoulder as she retched again. Was there a hint of fondness in the seer’s voice?

                “Theresa?” Sparrow panted weakly, the pulse of the Spire had subsided to a dull beat in the background of her mind. She could think again, feel herself again. Garth’s dusty old tower had disappeared and in its place was a misty landscape. In the far distance was a tall towering outline of a castle though its form shifted and swirled with the mist. “Where are we?” Sparrow asked as she shook the older woman’s hand from her shoulder.

Theresa stepped away, half her face hidden away by the low red hood she had always worn, though there were a few new coins added to its rim. “In-between.”

Sparrow bit her lip, stopping herself from asking anything more, she would get no answers from Theresa and really the less said between them the better. She felt the bitter resentment she had been stuffing down inside her rise inside of her. It tasted like the bile on her tongue, rotten and acidic, making her throat and nose burn. Sparrow spat on the ground, though truthfully she wasn’t even sure if there was ground beneath her feet. The mist swirled in thick eddies, obscuring the true nature of this place and leaving them both bathed in a soft grey light.

Sparrow stood and held her balance through sheer force of will.

                “We must speak. If you had kept the Guild Seal this would have been easier.” Theresa chided, her bony hands folded thoughtfully in front of her. She appeared calm, unruffled by her own display of power or the obvious discomfort of her ward. It was like the crone was just a mother, not immortal seer, coolly reprimanding her child for a minor oversight.

                “I’ve had enough of your orders.”

Theresa’s head twitched to the side, “The time for wallowing is done, Sparrow, I indulged your retreat. While countless suffered in Albion in your absence I said nothing, I accepted your…,” She paused, the coins on the edge of her hood tinkling with the slightest movement of her head. “Need for space.” It was obvious from the old seer’s tone that she did not, in fact, accept or understand Sparrow’s need for time away from Albion.

Sparrow rolled her eyes and turned away. “Leave me alone, Theresa.” There was so much more that she wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words. _You used me, you manipulated a child, what did you raise me for?_  Was there even a point in saying those words to her? Theresa had never been accepting of outside input or perspectives in the years that Sparrow had known her. Sparrow had admired that once.

                “A darkness threatens Albion. Come to the Spire, it is time that Albion’s Hero returned.” Theresa waved her hand and a misty replica of the Spire rose before Sparrow.

As if she had forgotten what her prison looked like. Sparrow had spent 5 brutal, tortuous, slow years in that pit.

                “I’m on my own quest.” Sparrow turned away from the ghostly rendering of the Spire. “If Albion is truly in need of a hero, I have every faith that you will conjure up just the _right_ individual.”

Theresa scoffed, “A quest with Reaver? A doomed undertaking. Return to the Spire there is real work to be done. You have wasted enough time playing to the Pirate’s fiddle.”

Sparrow clenched her fists, a strange new feeling washing over her. She couldn’t quite identify it. Anger and fear and humiliation all wrapped in one dark swirl in her gut. Was Reaver manipulating her? She had accepted that at the outset, it was his nature now. No matter what innocent or quasi-innocent beginnings he boasted. It wasn’t so much the possibility, but that Theresa would judge her relationship with Reaver as one in which he held all the power without any hesitancy. A relationship where Sparrow couldn’t have possibly anticipated Reaver’s duality.

Theresa had continued her tirade while Sparrow stewed, silently sorting her emotions into something she could process.

                “Perhaps I underestimated the effects of a pretty face. Few have escaped Reaver’s ministrations unscathed, yet I thought more of you. I believed my teachings would insulate you better….”

The mist at Sparrow’s feet boiled, but Theresa seemed not to notice. _Ministrations? Pretty face? Unscathed?_ Theresa’s insinuations that Sparrow was like all the other simpering associates of Reaver was a thousand times more infuriating. She truly thought so little of Sparrow’s abilities? That she would allow a _pretty face_ to influence her? That character and intention and circumstance and having a common goal were all lesser qualifications in Sparrow’s mind?

                “Return to the Spire at once. There is a quest for you.”

                “I’m stronger now, Theresa. I don’t need saving. I don’t need your protection or your guidance. I am no one’s puppet. I have played to someone else’s tune, true, but it was never Reaver’s.” Sparrow said, staring straight into the blind women’s milky eyes, barely visible beneath her hood. She felt the heat of her will fire at her feet and hands, the flames steady and controlled. Theresa believed her incapable? Let her see the creature she had forged then. Let Theresa see the Hero she had bestowed upon Albion. She felt her skin crack and split open, a thousand wounds opening over her body as the light of her will shined through. It was more power than she had ever called on before, more than she had ever thought she could possibly handle, but still she let more pour into her.

                “No! Fool!” Theresa shouted, but her voice was thin, nothing more than a fearful whine. “Stop! Sparrow, you have no idea what you are calling to this place!” her hood fell back revealing stunned blind eyes, the skin around them deeply scarred.

The workings of Theresa’s illusion were suddenly so clear. Sparrow could see the spider web of will, thin delicate threads of silver that stretched from Theresa to herself. Another thread of solid black that extended far into the distance and Sparrow knew that this thread lead to the Spire. Theresa’s illusion wavered, the world shaking as Sparrow flexed her power in a way she never had thought to before. Why had she never tested her limits like this before? It was exhilarating to feel her will burn through her veins, to see her skin peel back and rise into the air as ash. Sparrow envisioned the ghostly blades that she summoned only rarely in combat. She willed them into existence and then threw them against the thin threads that tied her to Theresa and the Spire. The blades sliced through them easily and the strands drifted up and apart, like broken cobwebs. Sparrow felt the break in her chest like a knife. Strange that she would feel the breaking of these ties when she couldn’t remember how it felt to have them forged. In a final act of defiance, Sparrow shredded Theresa’s illusion, casting them both back into the real world.

From the corner of her eye, just as the misty world faded, Sparrow saw a flash of crimson. She turned her head towards it but the world was already gone and darkness filled her vision. Somewhere ahead of her Theresa screamed.


	15. What's a secret among friends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow makes a play for independence and feels instant regret. Reaver vows to never eat again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anything actually happen in this chapter? Haha, I've been working towards a Chesty chapter for a bit now and I'm finally almost there! Last bit of set up for it here and then onto some fun games with out super best friend Chesty the Chest (and a little light maiming). Enjoy!

Reaver watched, waiting for Sparrow to finish her thought at first. She was staring at him in that defiant way. Her green eyes leveled at him and her brows lowered into a firm line. It struck him then, as she insisted that his life not only mattered but mattered to her that Reaver understood how annoyingly good she was. Pure. How she could believe that after everything, and she did believe it. He could see it in the stubborn set of her jaw and earnest insistence in her voice. It was almost enough to change his mind, almost. He lifted his drink to his mouth and swallowed another bitter mouthful. If his life mattered at all in this world, Reaver had a feeling that it was not in the positive way Sparrow meant.

The change in her demeanor was quiet but quick. The bottle of Hobbe’s Water was still raised to his lips when a shiver seemed to go through her, like the temperature around her had dropped suddenly. Her pupils dilated and her head dropped, her arms went boneless. As quickly as she had engaged him in conversation, Sparrow was gone.

                “Hero?” He put the bottle down, a needle of worry stabbing his heart. There was magic at work in this, though whose was what worried him more. He had seen the shivers, the twitches that seemed to roll through her on occasion and leave her irritated and wary. Reaver straightened, searching the dark shadows of the tower for movement, his eyes attuned to the unnatural creature he was expecting to find. He saw nothing, just cobwebs collecting dust and shoved aside furniture. The Shadows had not come to the tower, or if they had, they were content to watch events take place.

                “Sparrow?” he reached out to her now, gently placing a hand on her shoulder to shake her awake.

She moved suddenly, startling him, and turned to the side, bracing her palms against the cold stone floor, and vomited.

Reaver recoiled initially, luckily he avoided getting any sick on himself, but he found himself almost compelled forward again. He moved from his spot by the fire and positioned himself behind Sparrow, holding her hair back from her face as she retched what seemed like every meal she must have ever eaten onto the floor.

                “Well I’m never eating again.” He joked dryly as he cast about for something she could wipe her mouth with. She might actually be happy they found the Hobbe’s Water now so she could at least burn the acrid taste of bile from her tongue. He pulled a rag from the lopsided table behind them that Sparrow had previously used to prep their food. “Here.” He offered her the rag, letting it dangle well within sight and reach, but Sparrow made no move to take it or thank him. Reaver had assumed that Sparrow had come back to herself. His lips pressed together into a thin line, the needle of worry quickly transforming into a pulverizing mace. He had experienced his own haunting visions, but they were merely that, distractions that pulled his attention away from the real world. They didn’t pull him completely away not like…Reaver held Sparrow to his chest, if only so that he could see her face without letting her hair get completely covered in sick. He gently wiped her slack mouth with the rag, her eyes were still vacant.

In the next few minutes Reaver came to several conclusions: first, he believed in Sparrow’s heroic invulnerability, second, someone was interfering with Sparrow (which he considered to be his responsibility), and third, one day this would be a very amusing story, provided Sparrow ever woke up. He transferred her to her bedroll and laid her down in a position he liked to call the “party went well” position. She was on her side, left arm bent and tucked under her head and left leg bent to prevent her from turning onto her stomach. If her eyes hadn’t been wide open, Reaver could have believed that Sparrow was sleeping and experiencing an active dream.

                “Well,” he sat back, a little nauseated by the sick feeling in his chest, and studied the shadowy tower room once more in the flickering fire light. “This is highly irregular.” He saw nothing there, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being watched. It was as he was studying the shadows again, his tired mind wandering towards darker thoughts that Reaver noticed a blueish light illuminating the particular dark corner he was glaring at. It was a familiar shade, Sparrow’s shade of blue, the color that cracked through her skin when she lobbed fireballs at the enemy (mainly at him). He turned his gaze back to the entranced woman who was now covered in more will lines than he had ever seen and floating several inches off the ground. Her brow was furrowed into a hard line, her lips pulled back into an angry snarl. Her new will lines etched themselves into her skin in intricate swirling patterns as he watched, their blue glow pulsing against her skin. The warm orange glow of the fire retreated and the tower filled with the cool glow of Sparrow’s power.

Reaver rose quickly to his feet and reached for his gun, the engraved golden handle fit perfectly into his palm. The tower began to shake as the power continued to build around Sparrow. Dust sprinkled onto his head from the rafters above.

                “Hero!” Reaver called out.

Her pupils snapped back into focus, the blue will lines faded and she slammed into the wooden floor. She groaned and raised her hands to her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms into them.

Reaver eyed the rafters, still nervous that they might collapse on them before dragging his attention back to the woman on the floor. “Care to explain?”

                “I think, I think I just told Theresa to fuck off.” Sparrow remained still, frozen almost with her eyes covered for a moment longer. Her breathing came in shaky gasps and her hands still trembled, the pressure they put onto her eyes doing very little to hide the tremors from Reaver’s shocked gaze.

The pirate remained where he was, hand still on the hilt of his gun, his mind quickly processing his companion’s words and the possibly dire consequences. Theresa was old, ancient even. She was manipulating events around Albion long before he had strutted onto the scene with a fancy pistol and ship full of despots.

                “About time wasn’t it?” He breathed out with a laugh, “Though I didn’t expect to be quite so dramatic. Perhaps next time I host a ball you’ll do it again? I can’t think of anything that would be more exciting than to dance in an enclosed space with a Hero who looks like she’s about to burst into pieces.”

Sparrow didn’t seem to hear him. She just groaned.  

Reaver sagged against the table, piled high with manuscripts and mason jars, and swept his hair back from his face. He was incredibly relieved that the tower hadn’t come raining down on them. The thought of being buried again…it didn’t sit well. “Oh tosh,” he scoffed, hoping to keep whatever dignity he had left by hiding his intense relief that Sparrow hadn’t combusted. “It’s not like the old Seer can do anything to you now, right? She’ll hold a grudge but what’s that to you out here in the wide open fields of Albion?”

Sparrow’s hands slipped from grounding into her eyes to taking two handfuls of her copper locks. She looked more than worried, she looked exactly how the good girl who just told her parents off would, horrified and instantly filled with regret. The will lines were fading slowly beneath the sun-warmed color of her skin, but they still glowed gently in spider web patterns and swirls around her eyes and down the side of her cheeks onto her neck. If Reaver were a study of the patterns, which he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to admit, then he would say that the patterns had changed. Her will lines appeared only when she exercised her powers and faded quickly after, the strength of their brilliance directly related to the amount of power she used. The strength and persistence of her will lines was more than he had ever seen either in the brief time they had been together now or when they had traveled together before. If Reaver were one to admit such things, he would say that it worried him. That the sequence of events: the disappearance of the Dark Seal, the attack in Bowerstone Square, the pure invasion of his privacy that was their shared vision of his past, and now Sparrow’s growing will abilities were, on their own, troubling. Taken together as somehow connected events and he might wonder, even as he espoused his support of her independence of that crone, if the powers of an ancient seer might be useful.

Reaver let his hand fall away from his gun placing them on either side of himself to grip the edges of the table. He was still exhausted from the trek from the Bowerstone camp to Garth’s tower. Sparrow’s powerful aunt was a complication that he had believed solved when Sparrow had hinted at their estrangement to Lotus. He knew that she wouldn’t have approved of Sparrow helping him, but he wasn’t sure what Sparrow would do when confronted with the seer’s displeasure. Like many things he was unsure of with Sparrow, what would she do with the Dark Seal when they found it? Even at his strongest he would have hesitated in fighting the hero head on, but now weakened as he was….

                “She called me a ‘fool.’” Sparrow’s soft voice cut through his thoughts.

                “Of course, a true Hero is a powerful ally to have.”

Sparrow lowered her hands, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Her brows furrowed in thought, likely recalling whatever she saw during her trance or vision. He wasn't sure what to call it. 

Reaver waited, expecting more from her. She certainly had never left him alone and he wasn’t about to allow something like his traveling companion turning into a human chandelier go unexplained.

                “Are you going to make me ask, Hero?” he finally said, rolling his eyes at the puzzled expression that flitted across her face.

                “I can’t….”

                “You will. You pried from me a tale I have shared only,” he thought back to the petrified face of last person who learned the truth of him. That was the last time he kept his diaries in his residence. He had taken to burying them in the ruins of Oakvale after that. “Once, funnily enough that was an accident as well.”

Sparrow pulled herself into a fully seated position, crossing her legs as she straightened, thought the action did make her face turn a little green. “I’m not sure what happened, is what I’m trying to say.” She frowned, “or that I want to tell you. It is…private.”

Reaver narrowed his grey eyes as her, and their gazes met each a force of stubborn will. “As was mine.”

Sparrow held his gaze for several heartbeats and then looked away, her face resigned. “Theresa has been watching me through the Spire, I think. I’m not sure how. When I was imprisoned there….” Sparrow trailed off, and then she brought her hand to her thigh. She smacked her palm against her leg repeatedly, drumming out a rhythm that Reaver recognized from his short time as Lucian’s prisoner.

                “The Spire is more than a prison or a tower. It’s alive. It breathes and beats with a power of its own. Lucian used that power to control. The heartbeat of the Spire.” She stopped drumming. “Sometimes I can still feel it. Pulsing in my bones, as if I never left. Especially when we would talk about Theresa.” Sparrow looked up at him, not quite raising her head fully to stare at him fully, but watching him through the curtain of copper hair that had fallen over her face. Her emerald eyes still burning with the last dregs of power.

Reaver remembered her unwillingness to discuss her adopted aunt’s past, the odd trances that Sparrow tried to brush off, and most of all he remembered Theresa’s wizened voice warning Sparrow the day they had defeated Lucian that the Spire had only enough power to grant one wish. Clearly, she had lied.

                “Tonight Theresa used that power to pull me,” Sparrow struggled for a moment, clearly unable to find the words to explain what had happened after she had unceremoniously slumped over during their dinner conversation. “Out, like water from a glass.”

                “Or vomit from your mouth.” Reaver remarked, it should be noted rather unhelpfully, if the ensuing grimace from Sparrow was anything to judge by.

                “Did I-?” Sparrow started to question but quickly found her answer by first looking at the ground around her and a quick glance down at her person. “Shit.”

                “Shadows, I’m glad you didn’t do that.”

A glare. Punctuated by a thrum of power that made the hairs on Reaver’s arms stand on end.

                “I was only joking.” Reaver protested. “Partially.”

Sparrow shook her head, “I didn’t mean to do that.” She looked at her hands, shaking as they were, as if the answer was somehow printed onto her skin. Folded into the creases of her knuckles scribed onto the backs of her hands. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

It was at that moment that Reaver, exhausted as he was, concerned (objectively, as anyone would be in such a situation) as he was, and as enduringly self-absorbed as he was, began to realize that Sparrow the Hero of All was, quite frankly, losing it. Thus, a rare moment occurred, instead of pushing Sparrow to finish her account of the evening and satisfy his curiosity, Reaver suggested they go the fuck to sleep and deal with it in the morning to which Sparrow wholeheartedly agreed. The only true trouble was where they would sleep now that Sparrow had christened such a wide area with her own fine cooking, as Reaver put it.

An hour later, Sparrow’s hair was still damp from her bath in Garth’s remarkably uncluttered bathing facilities. She placed a hand on Reaver’s elbow as he began to push open the door to the room at the top of the tower.

                “Did I tell you that Garth left a note?”

It had been a climb getting to the only other room that existed in the tower. One, stairs. There were a lot of stairs. Second, Sparrow’s fear of heights had kicked in about halfway up (entirely Reaver’s fault, if he hadn’t joked about spitting on visitors she wouldn’t have thought about falling) and then progress slowed to a crawl. Literally.

                “Did he?” The door latch was stuck and Reaver tried a second time to pull the lever down to unlatch it. The latch hardly moved.

Sparrow grabbed his arm again, nudging him to the side of the narrow stair. She kept talking while she fiddled with the door. He was only too happy to let her.

                “He was very clear. Here’s the key to my tower, oh by the by, don’t sleep in the bed at the top. It’s haunted.” She gave the latch another tug and the sound of metal snapping echoed down the stairs. The door creaked open, nothing but moonlight illuminating the dusty room on the other side.

                “And you decided to reveal this now because?” Reaver sighed.

                “I think we should sleep on the floor. I’m done with ghosts.”


	16. Fuck You, Chesty.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow and Reaver find themselves stuck in a dream. Sparrow saves the day, Reaver calls her the thing.

The landscape was flat and barren, an even emptier version of the in-between place Sparrow had met Theresa. Dense fog rolled and writhed over the floor and the light was ambient but dim, casting misshapen shadows everywhere.

Sparrow rolled her neck, grimacing at the three satisfying pops that followed. She was alone, as best she could tell, except for a large, weathered chest opposite of her. A shadow flickered past the edge of vision, a giggle. Silence.

Sparrow felt a shock of uneasiness run through her. She couldn't remember what was before this place, had she been somewhere else before she was here? Sparrow summoned flames to her fingers, small ones, but her will lines only flared once. Not even a spark on her fingertips. It was then that she noticed the size of her fingers, small and thin, with dirty, blunted nails. She recognized the knitted fingerless gloves that covered the rest of her hands, they were socks that she had pinched from the tailor. She had stolen a matching pair for Rose too, but it had been years since she had worn them. Theresa had burned most of her things from before, her clothes had been so dirty and ragged that they weren’t even good enough to be used as rags.

A new knot of worry twisted in her belly, this was...wrong. Sparrow began to take stock of her appearance. The ratty clothes, the boots with the nearly worn through toes, the layers of brightly colored pants and shirts, as many as she could manage in order to shelter against the cold Albion winter. These were the clothes of her childhood, the symbols of her poverty, and reminders of her parents’ rejection. Sparrow’s hands drifted reluctantly, hesitantly towards her hair. She already knew what she would find, a sloppy bun and uneven bangs. She remembered the day she had cut her hair, chopping her bangs into an uneven slant down her face. Hiding just enough of her face to seem shy, to make her be overlooked. Sparrow bit her lip, confusion and fear washing over her in equal measure. She was a child again, but she could remember…. the edges of her memory were fuzzy. Names and events slipped in and out of her reach only a bare handful burning brightly: Theresa, her faithful hound’s final, agonized whimper, and Reaver.

A scrap of white paper caught her eye, bright against the dull and dark background of wherever she was. Sparrow stepped forward, hesitant, unsure of the ground beneath her feet. The sound of the soles of her boots echoed, the only sound in the strange space. Sparrow knelt down to examine the paper, picking it up gingerly.

_hello! i hope we can be super best friends! there's something i want to give you. something i think you'll like._

_chesty, your friendly chest._

_p.s. what are your hobbies? sometimes i like to kill people._

A grunt from behind startled Sparrow into action, she spun, fingers flexing as her mind tried to conjure the flames her child-self could only dream of…and nothing. Not even a flicker this time. She glared into the darkness, the chilling last lines of the letter echoing in her mind. _Sometimes I like to kill people_.

                “Who’s there?” she asked, immediately unnerved by the brightness of her voice. Somehow it sounded too high to her ears.

                The soft patter of footsteps and then, a boy. He was taller than her with dark hair that lay against the pale skin of his forehead like spilled ink across a blank page. He stopped in front of her, arms crossed over his chest, and grey eyes watching her warily.  His brows furrowed in concentration, his lips twisting into a grimace. Sparrow wondered if he was trying to remember too.

                “Depends, are you Chesty?” the boy answered, watchful grey eyes shifting over her.

Sparrow narrowed her eyes, “No. Are you?”

Sparrow glimpsed something white clutched in his left hand.

                “What’s that?” she asked.

His grey eyes taking in her childish features. There was something in his eyes that she was unaccustomed to as he took in her gaunt cheeks, the patch-worked rags, the sharp protrusion of her collar bone from beneath the torn collar of her shirt. Sparrow felt her cheeks burn. In contrast, he looked healthy, the angular features of his face gifted from lineage rather than a life spent begging for scraps. Memories fluttered in her mind like the wings of birds, glimpsed but gone before she could grasp them. Something about the boy was familiar, but she couldn’t place what it was. The loose fit of his brown pants, tucked into ash covered boots and the simple design of his shirt weren’t too different from a Traveler’s clothing. An oversized thick leather apron covered it all, the ties wrapped around his slim frame three times before ending in a tidy looped knot.  

The boy held out his hand, unclenching his fist one finger at a time as if he had to think about releasing his tight grip on the paper.

Sparrow stepped forward, curious, but a mounting sense of dread was filling her. In his hand was the same letter that she had found on the black earth of wherever they had been spirited. The childish writing, the haphazard scrawl of an unpracticed hand, spelled out the same message. Whoever this Chesty was, they were one creepy, murderous, asshole.

Before the two had a chance to discuss their unusual circumstances further a chime echoed around them. A confusing cacophony of noise followed, raucous and chittering, like dozens of children giggling and screaming. The sound came from all sides and the two lost heroes spun, each trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.

Sparrow stepped backwards, dragging the toes of her shoes against the ground as she bumped up against the dark-haired boy’s back. He leaned back, craning his neck so that his mouth was closer to her ears.

                “I think we’re dreaming!” He shouted over the din of hair raising whoops and screeches.

 The gibbering grew louder and grotesque, squat and shadowy forms started to stalk towards them through the fog. 

                “Sounds like hobbes.” Sparrow said, she felt her waist reflexively, knowing that some sort of weapon would be there. A grin crossed her lips as she grasped a rough wooden handle and whipped the weapon out in front of her. She almost laughed, it was her slingshot. She slipped a stone from the small bag tied to her belt and planted her feet in a wide, balanced stance. “If this is a dream, then we just have to figure out how to wake up.”

Memories again, flitting across her vision like thin curtains in the wind. She had power within her, something deep and old. She had strength too, as much as ten men, and skill.

The first of the creatures stepped forward into the hazy light of the circle and Sparrow swore under her breath. The hobbe was bigger than her by more than a foot. Lidless eyes watched her as the cursed thing drew back its thin lips to reveal yellowed teeth, each filed to a wicked point. Saliva dripped down its chin as it threw back its body shook with laughter. The sound was echoed by six more hobbes, their childish faces twisted into crazed masks.

She raised her slingshot, hands steady and the world seemed to slow. Skill, she had that too. She aimed, arcing her stone so that in a moment it would slam into the grotesque eyes of the first hobbe.

A flicker of movement to her right and then hobbe she was aiming at flew backwards, one eye exploding into a bloody hole.

                Stunned, Sparrow quickly adjusted her aim to the hobbe to its left, its skin a bright scarlet, aiming for its too wide mouth that was opened in a grating battle cry and fired. The scarlet hobbe choked on stone and flopped to the ground.

“Nice shot.” The older boy said, his right hand slipping into the pouch on her hip again to pull out three more stones. “Best two out of three?”

“Oh,” Sparrow laughed, her skin prickling with a familiar warmth that she couldn’t quite place. She handed her slingshot over to the boy as he stepped up to stand beside her. “You’re so on.”

His grey eyes widened slightly, going first to the sling shot and then staring at her bare arm. Vines of blue swirled up her arm, opening glowing cracks in her skin like dry mud.

Sparrow laughed again, wild and free. She could see the supports of this strange dream world now, the joints that held it all together.

                “There’s a chest over there, beyond the hobbes. If we can destroy it, I think we will wake up.”

                “Well,” The boy sighed, fitting a stone in the slingshot, “If my choices are you, the hobbes, or Chesty, I’m gonna trust you.” He raised the sling shot and let loose the next stone with hardly a glance at his target.

Another hobbe fell to the ground, a bloody hole bored through its cheek.

                “Lead the way, hero.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the unedited mess, I just finished my grad program and I have a new full-time job! Anyway, I'm now back, I have a writing alarm, and I am finishing this story! <3 to any readers left alive!


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